


a warrior’s will

by rowan_reign



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Angst, Be ye warned, Dragons, Dubcon Kissing, Fantasy AU, Fate is a bitch, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, No Pokémon, This starts rough and gets better, Vampires, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowan_reign/pseuds/rowan_reign
Summary: A dragon prince, locked away and tortured for decades, finds the one thing he’s able to break free for—the scent of his mate. But what happens when that mate is one of the same creatures that locked him away in the first place?Piers wants answers about his family, and came to London in search of them. What he wasn’t expecting to find was a searing attraction to a mysterious and completely unstable stranger, who acts like he knows him.
Relationships: Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers, Raihan/Piers
Comments: 69
Kudos: 229





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for descriptions of torture, an unhealthy start to a romance, dubcon kissing/touching, and general violence typical to a sexy vampire fic. If borderline assault bothers you, please click away. Also, I’ve set this in the real world, so I did my best to describe the settings based on my personal experience with them.

Dragons are difficult creatures to tame, and even more difficult to torture.

Their skin is thick, and fire does no more damage to them than a warm gust of wind. The heat within keeps ice at bay, and even the sword will get little more than a pained gasp from their lips. But with the right magic, even a creature as powerful and fearsome as a dragon can be punished.

Raihan thinks of this, and takes some meager pleasure that at least his punishment must be unique. It is _his_ torture, his own thing, a hell so great that no fire and brimstone a righteous human could ever imagine possibly comes close. Decades ago—or has it been a century or more now?—the vampires had trapped him, imprisoning him beneath the cobbled streets of London to suffer for all eternity. 

He is bent backwards across a great jagged stone, arms and legs held in place by steel chains as thick as ship’s ropes, burning with magic symbols that keep his power at bay. Above him, a single, hateful needle dangles from the ceiling, dripping the poison of the Fairy Oak, a rare tree whose root it happens to be. Every few minutes, another drop falls onto his belly, burning through his guts like an acid, eating him apart slowly but surely. It has worn him nearly in half, but every time he feels the blessed release of death creeping up on him, his immortality revives him and the torture begins anew. 

Over the years, it has burned away his mind, too. The rationality he once held, the princely demeanor, even memories of his family, his friends, his life. All gone, save for the rage in his heart—the hatred of his captors that nurses him on thoughts of revenge, and keeps the last scraps of his mind tied together. A thread that is unwinding, but slower than all the rest. 

Until the scent. 

He doesn’t know whether it’s day or night, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but that one little whiff, curling up his nostrils and stroking the part of his mind that still clings to sanity like a balm. Like a promise that everything will be better, if he can just reach the source of that scent. Nothing in the past has ever been able to move him, not the changing of the city above him, not his desperation to be free from this pain, but the scent is that of the one creature in all of existence itself that is _meant_ to be his. Worth more than an ocean of gold and jewels, treasured by dragons above all else. Raihan would give every last speck of wealth for that person, without a single second thought. 

The time is now. The root is readying another droplet but it has ceased for a moment, and his mate lingers on the street above. Raihan braces himself, his muscles tensing and straining until he snarls with the effort, blood dripping and then pouring onto the floor in great rivulets as the ancient metal slices into his skin. But he won’t stop, won’t rest, not when that scent is so close to him—the metal shrieks as it rips free of the stone. First one arm, then the other. His claws throw sparks as they strike and scrape at the thick band around his chest, the one binding his wings into his back so he can’t spread them and fly free. The band scores but doesn’t break, and the scent begins to fade. _No. Get him back. Need him._ One leg wrenches free in a shower of stone dust, and he sits up to brutalize the band at his chest with more force. He’s so very, very close after all these years.

His strength is waning, though, and the droplet above him builds again. Even a faint touch will have him writhing on the ground again, enough time for the scent to be lost. Will he lose what’s so close to his grasp?

No. Never. He’ll die trying, if he must; better that than knowing it slipped from his hands. His crumbling sanity needs this man—yes, there’s a masculine edge to the scent, underneath an earthy musk and the twisting fragrance of roses—to bring it back from the edge. With his mate, he can ease his troubles. Bury inside him, perhaps, or just hold him close. Take him, mark him, clutch him tight until the agony eases. He regrets, in a distant part of himself, the pain this will no doubt cause his mate, but fate wouldn’t have chosen one too weak for the task. 

He scores his own chest again and again, blood staining the stone underneath him anew as he fights with the metal, straining his wings against the bond as he lets the dragon take over. It wants freedom, craves its mate, and will do whatever it needs to survive until it has both. It will drink from the gutter, it will hunt for rats, it will scrounge and creep until it has gathered enough strength to roar forth fire and claim what belongs to it. To _him_. 

The metal grows hot and red as fire builds in his chest, hotter and hotter until even the runes engraved on it are overwhelmed, and it bursts apart in a shower of molten steel. No matter. His last leg is yanked free dispassionately, and he falls to his knees, too weakened to walk. But he crawls from the chamber of his torment, always wary of approaching enemies, hiding in the shadows until he can find his way up to the street, and to the one thing that will make the burning of his flesh and soul fade away.

In his long lifetime, he has been many things. A warrior, a captain, a prince. A dragon. Above all other things, he has been a dragon, and he will unleash the ferocity within him again and again for the man who bears that scent. For him, Raihan would burn the world to a smoking ash. 

He reaches the street, but the scent has been wiped away by rain and industrial fumes. He roars, and the buildings around him tremble in answer.

——-

Piers sighed as he threw himself down onto the wicker chair under the cafe’s awning, and scraped a weary hand across his face. He’d been in London for nearly two weeks now, and still he was hardly any further along than when he’d started. 

In the street, humans passed by in their usual hustle and bustle, chatting with friends or staring at their phones or keeping their eyes glued to the pavement. A thousand lives, converging here in this city, like a thousand threads weaving together into a great and accidental tapestry. Piers wished he could be like them, and cursed them at the same time for the ease of their existence. 

Sure, if most of them knew what he was, they’d either scream in terror or beg to be made like him. Humans crave and fear death in equal measure, and they’d see his vampiric side as a seductive promise of both. But right now, he felt less like a sexy Lestat and more like a little bat whose wings were on the verge of giving out. He was hungry, he was exhausted, and even with the lights of SoHo winking all around him, he felt nothing but alone and uninspired. Pitying himself, he took a sip of the black coffee he ordered from inside and opened his laptop to read over the meager information he’d been able to gather. A few grimly sparse sentences blinked up at him from the open writing document, and he wished his body was affected enough by caffeine to actually get some energy from it, because even looking at the words made him want to curl up and sleep for a decade.

His mother and father had lived in this city right up until his little sister’s birth, when his mother had fled west, towards the border of Wales. There, she’d been born in a tiny cottage nestled in the countryside, and a few months later, his mother had died of a broken heart. She’d left Piers alone at age seven, clutching a ticket to Paris in one hand and his baby sister in the other. To this day, he remembered little of her except the raven black of her hair, and the beautiful voice that had sung him lullabies when he insisted he wasn’t tired. Fractured memories, lost to time and sorrow, and they evaporate from his mind even now. 

He’d managed to learn that his parents lived in the west part of central London, likely near the Kensington area, nearly a century ago. It was a beautiful place, but as he strolled the Kensington Gardens and walked up through Earl’s Court, none of it struck him as familiar. No ghosts appeared to beckon him from the shadows, no traces of either parent remained on the bricks. Now there were launderettes and Oxfam shops, posh gyms across from centuries-old churches on the high street. It was a charming place, but as devoid of information as a blank page. The whole thing had been a pointless waste of time, and is going to end in a pathetic call to Melony, begging for a ticket home. He was out of blood, out of energy, and out of patience. So much for his grand journey to find himself. 

Sipping his coffee, he pushed his white-streaked hair out of his face from where it had a tendency to fall, and was just about to run a millionth fruitless internet search for facts that would give his quest direction, when a commotion on the street grabbed his attention. The people of London weren’t easily startled, and were used to dealing with odd characters on the street in ragged clothes. But this man was different—rather than a stumbling drunk getting rowdy or a random man screaming profanities, this man set even the stiffest upper lips trembling. A curse in a language Piers didn’t recognize ripped through the air, and then the umbrella of a cafe table went flying. Tourists and natives alike fled in all directions, some screaming, others cursing back and threatening to call the police. Napkins and empty food wrappers scattered everywhere, and before Piers had time to collect his laptop and disappear into the crowd, two hands landed on the far side of his table and he looked up into the man’s face. 

First, he was definitely not human. Second, he might still be utterly insane. 

Piers swallowed, and the man’s fearsome blue-green eyes burned with an unnameable intensity. His face was painfully handsome, though cast gaunt and sallow by lack of food and probably sleep. Dreadlocks that were likely once proud and well-kept now spilled in messy, desolate abandon around his shoulders, and there was a few day’s worth of stubble on his face. “You. Come with me,” he growled, and beckoned Piers as though he expected him to just follow along. 

Oh, hell no. It doesn’t matter that he was a vampire. It doesn’t matter that he was a feared creature of the night, Piers was _also_ a big fucking coward and he didn’t even hesitate to turn tail and run. Should he be ashamed? Maybe, but to Melony’s dismay, he’s never been a fighter. Always Piers the Timid, Piers the Meek and Mild. Running away is the thing he was very best at, or at least it was when he’s not on stage. That’s the one and only place he has courage, and for now? This was definitely not the kind of audience he wanted to stick around for. Vaulting backwards, he twisted in the air and hit the ground running, pelting down a side street and cussing under his breath that he chose today of all days to wear thick creepers rather than trainers.

He gained a block, maybe two, before stepping out of the shoes and deciding he’d run faster if he carried them. It earned a few strange looks from humans, but if that man was still following him, he didn’t give a damn what they thought of him. Maybe he could make it to a tube station, and vanish into the crush of rush-hour traffic, then come out at his hotel and lock the door and put this whole experience behind him. The man wasn’t a vampire, that much was for certain, but he wasn’t like any other Mythic that Piers had ever encountered. Not a demon, not a wraith, not a shapeshifter. Fear of the unknown clutched his heart like ice, but he reassured himself after SoHo gave way to Piccadilly that surely he’d run far enough by now. That the crowds between them would protect him. 

He might be a pathetic vampire and an even worse banshee, but at least he’s fast. One standout trait in what is otherwise the worst of both species. He’d gotten this far on that alone, and hoped it was enough as rain began to fall.

Fucking London. 

He sighed, accepting that he left his umbrella back at the cafe, underneath his seat. At least he managed to grab his laptop and his shoulder bag, and pulled out his cellphone to begin thumbing through until he came to Marnie and Melony’s numbers. Side by side, virtue of automatic alphabetizing. He knew that he should call Melony and get her to buy him a plane ticket, admit that this had all been a miserable failure and that he wanted to go home. Home. The thought of the sprawling English countryside manor, full of cool mists and friendly faces, beckoned to his tired soul. Or the Paris apartments, where Marnie was currently living as she made her way through her studies. Maybe he should call her, just to hear the soothing sound of her voice—

The phone screen shattered as it hit the pavement, and the breath he didn’t need was knocked out of him as his back slammed into the brick wall behind him. He’d ducked into an alleyway to mess with his phone and put his shoes back on, and got so distracted he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. Melony would call it a fatal mistake, and he barely had time to lament that she was always right before that battered face filled his vision again. 

Up close, the man’s face was still stunningly handsome, like seeing the ghost of a prince shimmering over a corpse. The reek of old blood and viscera hung heavy in the air around him, and Piers tried futilely to struggle against his iron grip. “Don’t run from me again. It’s pointless, and I _like_ it.” The emphasis he put on the word ‘like’ made Piers stop struggling at once, a shock like ice water flashing through his veins and freezing him in place. 

Then those oceanic eyes focused on his mouth, the tiny fangs protruding down over his lower lip in the barest self-defense he could manage. “No,” the stranger grated. “No, it can’t be—“ His words were choked with a rage so great it burned like a flame, and Piers realized that literal heat was rolling off him too, as though someone had opened an oven door nearby. A thumb on his upper lip peeled it back to expose them further, and a furious growl echoed out of the man’s throat. “Goddamn it, it can’t be. Not a fucking _leech,_ ” he spat the curse with vitriol Piers had rarely heard in his lifetime, and he mewled pathetically as he tried to escape again. 

“Please—you’ve got the wrong guy, I don’t know who you are or what you want but I’m not—“ He stumbled over the words and was cut off by another vicious snarl, one so deep it reverberated in his bones. _He knows I’m a vampire, then—but why here? Why target me so publicly?_ He tried to look pleading, aided by the very real tears welling in his eyes. 

The man’s expression only hardened further, twisting with something between condescension and bitter irony. “No, I think I’d know you anywhere. That scent of yours, it’s unmistakable. But I can check again, if you’d like.” The grip on his face was used to twist his head aside and Piers’ eyes clenched shut in terror, sure he was about to have his throat ripped out as the man buried his face against it. But rather than life-ending pain, he only felt the velvety hot swipe of a tongue up against where his pulse would be if he had one. The sensation was amplified by the cold rain on his skin, and he shuddered violently at the sheer possession of the gesture. The stranger groaned into his neck, and Piers whimpered in response. 

“Don’t— _please_ , don’t do this.” 

To his surprise, the stranger jerked back as though slapped. The firm hand on Piers’ shoulder didn’t release, but he looked all at once as though he was coming to his senses. The rage had melted back, and confusion and pain took its place. A kind of tragic agony that would make Piers’ heart ache, if it weren’t for the fact the man was assaulting him in an alleyway. 

He took a step back, horror now glowing in those eyes. “No, not like this, _never_ like this…” The words seemed more for himself than for Piers, and then his gaze flicked upwards again, and the steel was back. “Take me to your home, vampire.”

Piers was staggered, head spinning as he tried to process everything that just happened. The front of his shirt collar was slightly ripped, but aside from that and the general fear, the stranger had done him no real damage. Yet he shocked himself by drawing up to his full—and admittedly tiny, in comparison—height and squaring his shoulders. 

“No.”

The stranger blinked, and then shook his head. “That wasn’t a choice. Take me, or I might decide to rip you to shreds here and now.” Yet seconds ago, he’d stopped when Piers had simply asked him. Most supernatural creatures weren’t known for their mercy, and if he’d chosen Piers for prey or a toy, there was no sense in letting go of him for even the briefest moment. No reason for the horror that had flashed in those glorious eyes, even as they’d been overlaid with red for a split second. 

Then massive claws cut through the wall beside his head like knives through butter, and Piers yelped. “ _Now_.” 

Shuddering, he tripped towards the exit of the alleyway, and back out into the dark of the London night. Or, not particularly dark, given that they were just off Piccadilly Circus and light was dripping from every window, even at the latest of hours. He’d loved that about the big city originally; even Paris seemed to sleep from time to time, but London was up all night long. It had made Piers feel more...human, more normal, but now he wished there were more shadows to slip away into. Then Piers stumbled in his high shoes and a hand shot out to steady him, though the handsome stranger frowned as he did it, like the gesture confused him. Not as much as it confused Piers, that was for damn sure.

A car roared past and the man’s head snapped towards the noise with a snarl, and Piers noticed that his eyes were darting everywhere, as though he’d never been in a place like this before and he was...frightened? The iron fingers were still wrapped around his upper arm hard enough that he was sure to bruise, but it felt less like a steering grip and more oddly protective. Like he was at once trying to shield Piers and hide behind him. Which made even less sense, given that he was apparently as strong as any Fey Warrior that Piers has ever met, and then some. Whatever the hell this guy was, he was overwhelmingly powerful, but also woefully unbalanced and clearly out of his element. If Piers were a better warrior, if he were as calculating and calm under pressure as Melony or Kabu or even Marnie, he’d be using that to his advantage, but right now he was trying to silence the screeching alarms in his brain before he had a full-on panic attack.

“How much farther?” The stranger finally asked, and Piers shuffled his feet as he continued walking and mulled over his answer. There was no point in lying to him, though. There was just nowhere else Piers _could_ take him, and it wasn’t like he has many friends here in the city. Certainly none who would want to deal with this. Plus, if he lied and was quickly found out, the man might make good on his promise to tear him to shreds. He might as well be honest, it was all the same.

“I don’t...actually live here,” he said as they approached his hotel, after nearly twenty minutes of walking. “My home is...north of the city, but I’m staying at a hotel…” The information came out more nervously than anything, and he cowered under the stare it earned him, curious and calculating. “Over there.” He gestured to the immense building, with its antique facade and neatly groomed flower-boxes in the window. There was even a doorman, because of course Melony couldn’t have him staying at anything less than the fucking finest in the city. The stranger’s lips twisted ever so slightly, as though he was begrudgingly impressed.

“Well, your kind always _have_ had money,” he admitted, and then hustled Piers towards the door before he could ponder that statement any further. Does he know what Melony is—what the other half of Piers’ bloodline is? No, he can’t, can’t possibly—

They entered the immense lobby, and Piers was grateful that the lights were dim and that British people had a tendency to look aside from things they might find disturbing. He was soaked through, his back and feet were smeared with alley grime, and he felt close to tears. Which would, of course, be ruby red and made of blood. He kept his eyes focused on the tiles in front of him, even when his sopping hair fell into his face, and trudged towards the lifts behind the concierge desk. At least the other man released him, knowing that he wouldn’t make a scene in front of the humans. A ringing telephone caught his attention and Piers considered making a break for it, but there were too many eyes on him right now. Too many questions would be asked that neither of them could answer, too many humans that could become even more dangerous than a raging werewolf or a berserk vampire. So instead he pushed the lift call button and prayed that the ground would swallow him up before it arrived. 

It doesn’t do that, and the lift chimed cooly as the doors slid open. The stranger seemed hesitant to step in, flinching visibly as the lift dipped under his weight, but Piers pressed himself against the back wall and he frowned before getting in. Inside the cramped quarters of the elevator, the stench of gore and something acrid Piers couldn’t place was nearly overwhelming, and he tried to look anywhere else as the floors dinged past. 

When they opened again, the stranger looked moderately puzzled that they were in a completely different place, but the surprise doesn’t last long. He had an odd sort of confidence about him, even though it was clear he was completely out of his depth, and again Piers would marvel in any other situation. But instead he walked the hallway towards his room slowly, trying and failing to think of an escape route. The elevator would be too slow by half, he’d likely be caught before he even reached the stairs, and a window was dangerous at this height when he hasn’t fed in a few days. Not enough to kill him, but enough to hurt more than he was willing to risk. 

At last they reached his door, and the stranger stared at it blankly, after trying the handle and finding it locked. “Open it,” he commanded, and Piers cringed internally as he rummaged in his bag for the keycard. Heat tingled along his back and shoulder as he did, just from the other man’s closeness, and his fingers fumbled with the card for a few minutes before he managed to unlock it. 

The stranger surveyed the room with a suspicious eye, but everything was as Piers left it. A few books were scattered on the nightstand, and a jacket was strewn across the back of a chair, but aside from that he’d kept things neat and tidy. The cleaning service had strict instructions to only knock at night; during the day, when he slept, an absolute ‘do not disturb’ was in place for this room. Now, more than ever, he regretted it. 

The man stalked around the room as though searching for threats, looking underneath the bed and checking the closet, then finally circling back to where Piers is standing with his back pressed up against the wall tight enough to ache. Those roving eyes searched over his form, no doubt taking in the thin, frail body, an utter disappointment in comparison to his own muscle and sleek grace, even when potentially injured and definitely half-starved. “I’ve been looking for you for...so long,” he rasped, and Piers was shocked to find his shoulders softening at the tone. His fangs were dormant in his gums, and even when his body should be tightening in terror, he felt himself _relaxing_ as the other drew close. It made no sense, and he was almost as frightened by the lack of instinctive response as he was the other’s approach. 

“I—who _are_ you? What do you want from me?” His voice shook, and emotions flitted across the stranger’s face in such quick succession he could barely follow them. Anger, then sadness. Pain, then back to rage, then a terrible stillness that gave him the countenance of a statue of some forgotten god. 

“My name is Raihan. And what I want from you…” he leaned in, cheek nuzzling up against Piers’, a heavy breath huffing across his ear. Again, Piers should be shaking in terror, but he found the gesture comforting in a way he couldn’t even begin to explain to himself. “Is an end to my pain.”

That was certainly not the answer Piers had been expecting. Raihan smelled of injuries heaped upon injuries, for certain, but somehow he guessed that the pain he was referring to wasn’t merely physical. He’d been so violent in the alley, almost seeming to revel in Piers’ distress, but now he was cuddling against his neck as gently as a lamb, and asking Piers to soothe his hurts. More heat radiated from his body, and Piers shivered, but not entirely from fear.

Didn’t this guy just want to kill him?

Their mouths met and Piers froze with the shock of it. Raihan kissed him in a slow, unhurried way, as though he was savoring the taste of Piers on his tongue. He made a soft noise and Raihan used the advantage of his parted lips to push his tongue in, thick and deliciously hot. He kissed like a steady possession, a self-assured conquering of Piers’ mouth that left his toes curling in his soaked socks. “Kiss me back,” he snarled against Piers’ lips, the brutal demand from the alleyway echoing in his voice again.

Piers whimpered, and did his best to kiss even though he didn’t know how. He’d imagined his first kiss a hundred, maybe a thousand times, and this had absolutely never been it. But Raihan pressed him up and into the wall, even as Piers tried to do the work with his mouth, rubbing their lips together and darting his tongue forward shyly until Raihan groaned and took over again. Then he was sucking on Piers’ tongue, biting his lower lip, taking and taking until Piers felt lightheaded enough that he thought he might drop on the spot.

When they finally pulled apart, Raihan returned to his neck as though drawn by a magnet, and licked another stripe up his throat. 

“You’re cold.” The words were low and sweet in his ear, and Piers was getting a serious case of whiplash. Raihan drew back, eyeing him up and down, and the concern was quickly replaced with repulsed derision. “And filthy. Go and clean yourself, and make ready for bed.” He must have been gaping at him, because Raihan shoved him in the direction of the hotel’s bathroom. “I will join you, once I have made sure this place is secure.”

For a moment Piers considered arguing again, but the door was an opportunity to put a lock between himself and this crazy asshole. He took it, tripping for the tiled sanctuary and quickly shutting the door behind himself. Locking it was likely useless; given how strong Raihan seemed to be, he’d be able to break it in seconds. But maybe he’d respect Piers’ privacy? Unsure of what else to do, he stepped out of his hindering shoes and kicked them to the corner, then went to turn the water on. It sluiced out, hot and beckoning, but he couldn’t bring himself to undress. Not after all he’d just experienced. 

Instead, he sat on the closed lid of the toilet, and tried to think about what to do. So he’d brought an utter lunatic back to his hotel room, one who was strong enough to make tearing through concrete look like wet paper, and apparently thought Piers was going to be his panacea. His…something. And Piers, despite all the fear he felt, still couldn’t muster a defense response. His body, against all insistence otherwise from his brain, opened up to Raihan like it wanted to accept him rather than run screaming. It didn’t make any sense, and all of this loaded on top of his desolation from earlier until fat red tears were tracking down his cheeks. He scrubbed at them, annoyed at himself for wasting the blood he was already low on to cry. So useless. 

He’d royally screwed himself this time. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piers and Raihan get up close and very, very personal.
> 
> **brief warning for allusion to self-harm, no actual depiction or description though**

Everything was so unfamiliar, and Raihan knew he was barely holding on. Even when he had a closed door between himself and all the insanity of the outside world, he still felt each sense on high alert, twitching at the slightest movements and searching for the imminent threat. Some part of him knew he was behaving irrationally, but the larger portion of his fractured mind was wondering what hell the world has descended to in the years he’s been locked away. Truly, how long _had_ it been? His eyes roved over the neat hotel room, lighting on a strange booklet on one of the tables. There was an image of a man on the front, but rather than a painting, it seemed to be a daguerreotype with _color_. Even more bizarre were the words that swirled around it, suggesting meanings he couldn’t even begin to grasp, but there was at least a date listed in the upper right corner: October 2019. 

Gods above. They’d tortured him for over a century. A few decades shy of two, actually. He scrubbed a hand over his face roughly, backing away from the bizarre booklet and searching the rest of the room for...what? He didn’t know. Threats, perhaps. Traps. But also any hint to his mate’s life—he could smell him everywhere, and that soothing scent is strongest on certain articles of clothing and objects that must belong to him. Raihan greedily grabbed up what looked like a short military jacket made of _leather_ for some reason, and buried his face in it. 

The clothes of this time, the noise, the lights, the people and faces and sounds of the city were all so overwhelming, but this one scent brought him back to himself instantly. As though there was a gentle bandage of gauze being wrapped around the bleeding edges of his sanity, the smell of mate reminded him of home and _self_. 

Too bad that scent belonged to a _vampire_. His stomach curdled and he pitched the jacket across the room in a fury, but it did nothing more in retaliation than lay limp and unassuming in a heap against the wall. 

Seven hundred years. He’d been searching for his mate for nine hundred years, and now he found a _leech_ waiting for him? His mind must be confused, broken...the thought of it, the mere _suggestion_ made him seethe. Gods above and hells below, fate couldn’t possibly be this cruel! He sunk down onto the end of the bed, clutching his head in his hands. He’d heard the stories since he was a tiny hatchling in his mother’s lap, of how one day he would venture out into the big wide world and find a person just for him. Sculpted by the hands of fate, selected to be his own. A dragon’s mate is more than just a vessel for offspring or a continuation of their lineage, a true mate is meant to _better_ the dragon, to stand side-by-side with them, ease their sorrows and increase their joys. A mate can heal anything short of a fatal wound, and their smile can turn the bleakest day to sunlight. 

Yet apparently, he’d been given a vampire. A fucking low-life, blood-sucking, scum-of-the-earth vampire to call his own? Hasn’t he been tortured enough by now? He pictured the little thing as a shapeshifter, a Were, even a human. His heart would beat and his blood would run and Raihan wouldn’t have a care in the world for anything but him. It would be perfect.

The sound of running water shook him out of his self-pitying thoughts, and without even asking his legs to move, he found himself standing in front of the washroom door. And vampire or not, his mate lay on the other side. At least he hadn’t lost control to a rage or panic since he arrived, since he tasted the sweet flesh of his throat out in the rain—no, he was supposed to hate him! _Hate him, want him_ , both swirled in his mind and he seized the doorknob because he couldn’t stand the pressure in his skull anymore. It was locked, but he snorted and broke the knob with a smooth twist of his wrist. 

Inside, the room was tiled and filled with steam, and a glass partition separated one area where all the water seemed to be pelting down out of a round metal disc. It looked like a contained rainfall, and he blinked in shock. Last he heard, only a few lucky ones had a device like this, but now even apparently hotels could afford them. And they were both far warmer and far more compact than he remembered. Then his eyes flicked over and found the little vamp curled on top of the commode, eyeing him warily. 

“You’ve not cleaned yourself. Why?” Did he have to make everything frustrating and difficult? But then Raihan noticed a track of red streaking the pale skin of one of his cheeks, and the thought of the creature’s bloody tears at once revolted and worried him. 

“Because...I don’t want to. I don’t want—any of this,” the vampire murmured and then he gestured at the room, as though trying to encompass everything in one motion. Well, he was in good company; Raihan wasn’t exactly clicking his heels together about all of this either, but this was the hand Fate had dealt them. He looked from his mate to the shower and back again, and then lifted his shoulders in a bored shrug.

“I don’t particularly see how you have any choice. Though if you want to sit there all night on the commode, freezing and covered in muck, that’s your choice.” It was a lie; he’d rip the clothes off him and dunk him under the water by force if he needed to. But perhaps—in light of the tears—stating that outright isn’t the best option. Instead, he decided to take the shower for himself.

It was truly a relief to be out of his clothing, filthy and wretched as they were. He stripped down without an ounce of shame, as he’s spent too many years in barracks and camps and even communal bathhouses to bother with flinching at a little nudity. But his mate jumped at the sight of Raihan stripping down, his limpid blue eyes quickly darting across his form before settling between his thighs and widening to the size of dinner plates.

_You’d think he’d never seen another man’s cock before._

Raihan pretended to ignore him as he stepped under the water, and the groan of relief and pleasure that left him was all too real. This shower felt like heaven itself, rekindling the warmth inside his body that had vanished for far too long, and washing the grime of the years down the drain. He allowed it to pour over his face and then turned so that it would hit his shoulders and slide over the marks of his retracted wings, which appeared to the untrained eye as immense and elaborate tattoos.

And there was an untrained but very interested eye on him right now. If he had the space, he’d perhaps languidly spread out his wingspan and allow his mate to admire his majesty. For now, though, he settled for tilting his head and peering over his shoulder. “I can sense you looking, little one. You’re free to put your hands where your eyes are, if it interests you that much. And you’re willing to let me touch back.” A salacious grin broke out on his face, though he was shocked to see the vampire actually _blush_. A sweet crimson flooded his high cheekbones, and though Raihan never knew a vampire could do such a thing, it gave him an almost angelic countenance of pure innocence.

Oh, if only he weren’t everything but. 

Still, he hesitated at the edge of the shower, and looked back at the door longingly. “Don’t bother trying it. I’ll catch you before you even touch the handle, and then I’ll throw you in here and wash you myself. You’re beginning to try my patience, little one, and I won’t be kept waiting much longer.” The command, at least, felt somewhat right. Was he the sort of person used to bossing others around, making demands of them? It was difficult to tell when he felt so tired, and the steam on his skin was so utterly relaxing. If only his mate would join him under the water, and he could press his chest into the tiles and begin to thrust inside him…

The thoughts must’ve made him harden up, because his mate gave a choked noise and looked desperately away. Sighing, Raihan rolled his shoulders and turned to face the other. “Come, now. Is it really so horrible, the thought of being in here with me?”

“Yes,” the vampire hissed, and Raihan frowned as he leaned back into the tile again. So resistant. _Coax him, gentle him_ , whispered a voice in the back of Raihan’s mind, and it felt enough like instinct that he decided to trust it. Besides, the steam and heat were making him feel generous and relaxed, so he cocked his head to one side and studied the slender form. He’d always imagined that his mate would be as tall and muscular as he, but the more he looked, the more he enjoyed. Slim wrists and delicate ankles, huge eyes that ‘blue’ was too pedestrian a word to describe. High cheekbones rested under pale skin, and there was a certain androgyny to his mate that he couldn’t help but be intrigued by. Oh, and he’d look _divine_ in sterling silver, or perhaps white gold. Raihan noted the piercings studding his ears and the little hoop hooked through one nostril with a surge of pleasure; it’s right that a dragon’s mate should like to decorate himself. All the more reason to lavish him with gemstones that would shine and glitter so well against his flesh. Raihan was more than aware of the physical contrast between them, but strangely his concerns about it fell away as the man eyed him nervously from under a thick fringe of dark lashes, his glorious hair falling into his eyes and being brushed away. A bit too thin, perhaps. In want of a few pounds, care and feeding that the dragon instinct in him stretched and purred at the thought of fulfilling. But aside from that, everything about him seemed beckoning, especially those unusually plush, welcoming lips.

He was also aware that vampires are intentionally gorgeous. It’s part of how they hypnotize their prey, luring them in with physical beauty and then trapping them with strength and thrall before taking their blood, and often their lives. Monsters who would suck the life out of anything if they were hungry enough. But right now, he couldn’t quite muster his usual rage, and instead held out his hand in beckoning.

“Then what if I offered you something that you want, so I can have some of what I want?” 

His mate frowned, pretty brows drawing together like a worried doll. He seemed indignant about this idea, even drawing up the fullness of his meager height. That was the second time he had stood against Raihan, even when Raihan could easily separate his lovely head from his shoulders with a flick of his claws. The challenge alone was exciting, and his body pulsed with interest at the little vampire’s pride. “And what the hell do you think you have that could make me possibly want to get naked with you?”

Raihan _did_ have something he’d want, though. With him, at all times, regardless of whether he could even spread his wings or not. Looking around the shower, he searched for a way to access it that’ll be neater than his claws; there was bound to be one around here somewhere. “Blood. Your kind craves it, no?” Ah, there. Sitting on a small ledge was a shaving razor, and he seized it up and held it out over his outstretched arm. “Perhaps I could spare a drop—“ _Never_. He would never willingly give a vampire his blood, but if he could trick this one now, all the better for it. He’d simply watch him bathe, take him here and now, and then deny him in the end. Easy enough.

But before he could make even the faintest scratch, two cold hands were wrapped around his wrists and yanking them apart. _“No!”_ Gods, but he’s fast. “Don’t—fuck, what the hell are you thinking? Don’t _do_ that! Don’t—shit, if you’re going to act like that, then screw it! I’ll shower with you, you fucking lunatic!”

Raihan blinked in surprise; this was the first time a vampire had ever responded with anything but gross thirst and greed at the prospect of blood. Yet blue eyes burned up fiercely at him, as though he’d suggested cutting his entire arm off, and there was a pleading there he didn’t know what to do with. Still, he made a show of setting the razor back on the ledge, and then proved he could be just as fast by seizing thin shoulders and whirling his mate under the spray. There was a fuss and a sputter, but Raihan made short work of stripping away the soaking wet jacket and tossing it out of the glass cubicle.

“Magnanimous of you to give such a boon away for free, my little one. I appreciate it.” Despite the heat of the water, his mate still shivered, and Raihan paused before setting his hands carefully on his shoulders once more. “Easy. I promise not to hurt you. Just going to put my hands on you, feel and learn your body. I won’t do anything you don’t want.” All he has to do is make him want it. A mate’s body would surely begin to respond...and there was already that faint flush on his cheeks. 

Then a glittering at the hollow of his throat caught Raihan’s eye, and his hand came up to catch at the shining star hanging from a thin strap of leather just there. The instant he touched it he knew it for gold, his dragon instinct catching the value of the metal immediately. _White_ gold, even, just as he’d imagined moments ago. It looked almost like silver, but was softer, and the light that glinted off it was clear as starlight. Something about it twitched at the back of his mind, another fragment of memory that he couldn’t quite get a hold of. It faded in and out, but he knew he recognized the shape from somewhere.

“That’s an heirloom,” his mate murmured, though there was still tension in his voice. As though he was afraid Raihan would take it from him, which would not be a mean concern if he were anyone else, but Raihan felt nothing but pride at his mate holding something so valuable. He’d come to be used to the luxury of jewels in time. 

“Feel as though I ought to know your name before I set about putting my hands on you,” he said, even as his hands circled in towards the thin black shirt his mate was wearing. Clothing had clearly changed, along with everything else in this world, but he was perhaps grateful that the thick, stifling fabrics of the nineteenth century had given way to lighter forms. 

Again, his mate gave that angelic look up through thick lashes, and a pink tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. “Piers. My name is Piers.”

The name sounded like music to his ears, and he hummed in acknowledgment right before he ripped through the shirt with his claws.

——

This was insane. Sanity had completely departed from this room, this city, and quite possibly this entire portion of the world, because everything Piers knew about himself and his own faith in common sense was currently getting turned upside down. The remains of his shirt slid wetly to the floor of the shower and were unceremoniously kicked aside, and there he was. Shirtless in a shower with a man he’d known for all of an hour, who was currently staring down at his chest with an almost pained expression of lust.

The piercings. Piers’ breath caught in his throat as Raihan’s thumb lifted to stroke across one, the heated pad of his finger stirring it to an even harder point. Gods, he should hate every second of this, and yet the pleasure that flashed through his body felt like liquid lightning and he barely swallowed the groan on the back of his tongue. Raihan voiced it for him, the sound low and _warm_ as it bounced off the tiles, not at all like the threatening growls and snarls he’d been letting out until now. 

He’d promised not to hurt him, and while Piers certainly didn’t trust him, the rough feeling of Raihan’s callouses against his skin was wiping all rational thought from his brain. It had been such a long time since someone even held his hand, let alone groped and massaged his chest with utter reverence in each touch. That...had never happened before. 

Piers could lie to himself and say that it never bothered him. That being a vampire and confined to the hours between dusk and dawn was every bit as sexy as the movies and HBO specials made it out to be, and that he’d had scores of adoring lovers caught in his thrall. That he was an alluring vixen and creature of the night and none of this was affecting him in the slightest, and all of it would be a lie.

Up until ten minutes ago, he’d never even been kissed. He was barely seventy, still astoundingly young by immortal standards, and despite the fact that humans a quarter of his age are out there experiencing breathtaking sex and whirlwind romance, he remained a frozen virgin. 

Not that he hasn’t tried before. When he’d been enrolled at a university that offered a broad enough range of nighttime classes, he’d done his best to make temporary human friends and had even accepted offers for nights out at clubs and bars. The thrum of human life had initially excited him, and he’d downed pointless and tasteless drinks before giving himself over to the throb and pulse of the dance floor. Music, he loved. Music made him feel alive, allowed him to forget who and what he was and just melt away into another existence entirely. But even when human men and women had seized his hips and tugged him close, it had felt nothing but wrong. Awkward, sweaty, and uncomfortable. And worse, when they’d pushed him into some dark corner and he’d expected things to finally be taking off, his fangs had dropped and the blood lust rushed up on him so suddenly that he’d shoved them off and run from his own hunger before anyone could stop him. 

He had told his human friends later that it was just too much drink, and they’d laughed and told him to take it easy on the tequila next time. But Piers learned that humans have no sense of self preservation, and that he can’t be touched by them without the thirst overwhelming his senses.

He refused to become a killer, so he abstained from all but the tamest of touches.

Until right this moment, apparently. Raihan was stroking him with heated noises and panting in his ear, and the sound of it stirred an ache in Piers that he’d thought he long since put aside. At first he flinched, waiting for the thirst to roar to life in his throat, but nothing of the sort happened. The only desire in his body was located firmly between his thighs, and the hardness he felt growing there. Raihan apparently noticed too, because he let out a low hum and fingers trailed along his belt, right at the same time that molten lips sealed over the metal barbell pierced through one of his nipples. The noise that ripped from his throat was high and he’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t awash in pleasure, every nerve ending alight in a way he didn’t even know was possible. Was he really so desperate for a touch that he’d submit to a man he barely knows like this? Yet his fingers were curling in messy hair and Raihan’s mouth was hot as a brand around his nipple and Piers whimpered at the sensation of a tongue tugging at his piercing.

“So soft...so delicious...pretty as a diamond,” Raihan rasped as he pulled back and licked away the strand of saliva connecting his mouth to Piers’ nipple, then knelt to shred away his pants. At first, Piers’ knees locked and his mind overloaded to the point of whiting out, _404 thoughts not found_. But even as Raihan eased him out of his trousers, stroking over his hard cock with shockingly gentle fingers, he stood again and reached around Piers for the bar of soap and brush left by the hotel. 

As he lathered the brush up and Piers tried desperately to gather himself, he got another good eyeful of Raihan’s physique. Even though he tried to avert his eyes from the massive erection bobbing between his legs, it was impossible to keep his gaze off the rest. Raihan was huge in every sense of the word; Piers had always known he was on the shorter side of average, but Raihan towered above him head and shoulders. The muscle that gathered on his chest bunched and flowed as he moved, and his skin was deep and flawlessly smooth. Everywhere that it wasn’t scarred, of course. It looked as though something had tried to squeeze him in half around the chest, a deep mark that Piers couldn’t place as a burn or a cut. Whatever it was sent a true chill up his spine, but Raihan didn’t even seem to notice the wound. Now that the muck was off him, the hair on his chest was a thick dusting of curls that Piers longed to sink his hands into, and even his thighs looked as wide around as Piers’ entire head. Gods, but he was a beautiful specimen of man. 

_Except for the whole ‘totally insane and possibly wants to kill me’ part,_ Piers reminded himself. 

Then Raihan was touching him, and again, he was as gentle as though Piers were made of spun sugar and moonlight, or something else equally ridiculous and fragile. His broad hands, capable of such easy violence, cupped and massaged Piers’ muscles as Raihan washed him clean with a methodical scrubbing motion. He began with Piers’ shoulders and worked his way down, getting off any grit and grime from the alleyway until the water ran clean and soapy. It was...bizarrely relaxing, and Piers found himself tilting forward until he had to clutch at Raihan’s shoulders to stay upright, even when those hands circled around to grope at his ass. 

He gasped at the first touch, a finger sliding down to spread him open and rub against the tight rim of his body. It was a staggering sensation and Piers couldn’t help but whine into Raihan’s shoulder as the digit teased around and around and Raihan murmured something in a language Piers didn’t know right into his ear. Then it pressed up against him, slicked slightly by the water but even Piers knew it wasn’t enough and he squeezed his kitten’s claws into Raihan’s back. “Don’t, it’s not—I can’t, I’m not ready,” he panted, even as he felt the head of his own cock rubbing against Raihan’s taut stomach. “You promised.” 

There was a growl, and then the finger withdrew. “Very well. But know this, Piers. One day, you’ll be begging for my touch there. And everywhere.” Piers wanted to sputter and tell him again that he was out of his fucking mind, gone ‘round the bend, but Raihan’s voice held such a deep promise to it that he felt the coil of possibility in his mind at the very idea. 

Before he could do or say anything else, he found the brush shoved into his hands and Raihan’s broad back turned towards him. The tattoos he’d glimpsed at earlier were now right under his fingertips, and he began to wash Raihan’s shoulders almost out of pure curiosity to examine them. They looked like huge bat’s wings, except tucked and folded neatly against his spine, and stretching all the way from his shoulders down to his hips and curving towards the front of his body. Whoever had done them for him had clearly taken the time to make them as lifelike as possible, and Piers half expected them to unfurl as he worked the sponge down between the curves of Raihan’s muscles. 

A deep rumbling sound began to echo off the tiles, and it took Piers a moment to realize that it was a purr rather than a growl. Daring to steal a glance upwards, he found Raihan’s head tilted back, his eyes closed in bliss and his lips faintly parted as he enjoyed the feeling. Perhaps—and going on the scars on his body, this wasn’t such a long shot after all—he hadn’t been touched in a way that felt good in a long time, either. Piers wanted to shake his head and call himself crazy for already sympathizing with the man who had barged his way into his life like a whirlwind of insanity. _Stockholm Syndrome, much?_ Except Raihan hadn’t kidnapped him. They hadn’t left, hadn’t gone anywhere. Piers still had his cellphone, and his wits. He could escape if he wanted to.

Except after weeks of searching pointlessly and endlessly, he finally had some questions that he could maybe get answered. The usual cowardly part of him wanted to run for the hills, but dammit, he wanted to ask _something_ of someone and actually get a response. That, and he had to admit that Raihan was stunningly attractive, despite all the violence. His body still tingled with interest and his cock was hard between his legs from the fact that a man like that had been touching him, practically drooling over him just a minute ago. Piers had never thought much of himself and his body, but Raihan clearly found it attractive in a primal way, and the thought of exciting a man this gorgeous sent a surge of unearned pride through Piers’ chest. 

At least he didn’t have a heartbeat to give himself away with, he thought gratefully as he knelt to wash off Raihan’s legs and send the last of the muck down the drain. It felt oddly tender to be kneeling to clean him like this, and though he could never imagine a man as strong as Raihan actually needing his help, Piers gently moved the sponge across the scarring on his ankles and thought that perhaps Raihan might just _want_ it. 

When he stood again, Raihan slowed turned back towards him, so huge and imposing that Piers melted against the tile on instinct. “Allow me to kiss you again,” Raihan murmured, and it was all Piers could do to nod before that hot, demanding mouth was pressed to his again. It was so easy to just give in, let everything else fade away as he offered himself to Raihan’s touch. The smell of him, the warmth of his body, all of it seemed to come from everywhere at once and Piers was lost in trying to keep up with his kiss. If he needed to breathe he would have been breathless by now, and as it was he had to grip onto Raihan’s shoulders to follow his lead. He tried to copy the move of sucking eagerly on the thick tongue pushing into his mouth, and Raihan growled as though pleased with the effort. Piers was aware that he was opening himself up too much, giving too much away, but he craved so badly, wanted so much. 

He was so _hungry_.

The realization hit him like a truck and he felt his fangs slide out from their hiding place in his gums. Raihan’s skin would give like butter when he bit down, opening one of his veins and sucking all the sweet, tantalizing blood that would be forced into Piers’ mouth with every beat of his strong heart. He could take and take and it was so _close—_

Then he shoved Raihan back so hard they both nearly fell, and whispered an apology before leaping out of the shower. He barely remembered to grab a towel, fleeing from the bathroom to the furthest corner of the bedroom, and cowering there as he tried to calm the raging instincts inside himself. The world seemed to spin as he reached out and rested a clawed hand against the ageing wallpaper, and felt the heat of the day already beginning to seep through. He’d need to lie down and sleep soon; when the sun rose high in the sky, it was almost impossible for him or Marnie to remain conscious. The banshee side of them had no love of the light, preferring to remain in the gloom and shadow, and the vampire side would burn and suffer if ever exposed to the sun’s rays. Every single day, the world was drenched in something that could kill him in seconds, and exhausted him even when he was safe in the shadows. 

Now his hands were shaking as he knelt beside the bed, resting his face against it as he tried to gather himself. He’d nearly bitten Raihan—and he’d never gotten dental with anyone before. Ever. Even back in the clubs, the hunger had only been half that, a thing he could bat away as soon as he was out in the open air, but now he was trapped in this room by the sunlight, and his hunger was worse for all the days he’d gone without feeding.

Sighing, he opened his eyes and looked at the white bedspread, and then stood to find something to dress himself in. He needed sleep, and then tomorrow night, he needed to find a new blood plug. His old one had vanished entirely, and no one seemed to know or care if he was even alive or not. Few supers would deal blood to vampires that weren’t already vampires themselves, and Melony had always told Piers to steer clear of that part of his own kind. 

Vampires were monsters, and that’s what everyone said. The bogeymen for bogeymen. It was no wonder Raihan had looked on his fangs with disgust. Opening a drawer in the hotel’s dresser, Piers took out a pair of black cotton boxers and the simple pink tank top he enjoyed sleeping in, soothing himself with the feeling of the familiar fabrics on his skin. Behind him, the bathroom door opened and closed, and he steeled himself before turning to face Raihan.

Except rather than rage, there was...curiosity in his eyes? He looked Piers up and down once, searching, and then moved to settle himself onto the bed. After a moment, he raised his hand and made an impatient beckoning motion. Hesitant, Piers paused before settling on the other side of the bed. Did he mean for them to sleep together? 

Then again, he doubted very much Raihan was going to accept the floor. 

“Do you know how many of your kind I’ve killed, little vampire?” The words had Piers freezing in place, and he tensed for whatever blow or threat was about to come. But Raihan kept speaking, staring at something past Piers’ head. “I barely remember, it’s been so many. I’ve hunted them down into their warrens and holes, staked them into their graves and beheaded them. Again and again. The scourge of the earth.” He laid back against the bed, all gorgeous golden luster to his skin and powerful muscle, like an angel given flesh.

“And I’ve never hesitated to slaughter one until today. Until you.” His voice was gentle, almost reminiscent, as though they were old friends talking. Maybe even lovers. Piers shuddered, and looked down at Raihan. 

“Then...why didn’t you? Even when I just almost fed from you?”

“I’m not entirely certain. When this haze in my mind clears...whenever I make sense of this mad world again, maybe then I’ll know. All I know is that I want you. I want to be near to you, everything is clearer with you...and I’d rather die than let you go.” He said the words so easily it was almost casual, even though Piers stiffened again. He’s never had anyone declare anything like that about him, outside of Marnie and Melony. His family. And yet Raihan cast a look at him with those deep aquamarine eyes, and Piers knew for certain just how honest he was being. 

It was a little terrifying, but then again, what isn’t? “And...if I agree to stay with you, then what?” Raihan cocked an eyebrow at him, and then patted the space in bed beside him. Piers felt exhaustion creep further into his limbs, and decided to lie down before he passed out. As his head hit the pillow, he felt a huge arm snake around his waist and draw him close. 

“Then everything, little one. Then everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we’re getting spicy. Hmm...many questions, many potential answers. 
> 
> And just for reference: Marnie is an adult in this because...uh...I couldn’t figure out a way to have Piers be like 60 and frozen into his immortality as a born vampire and have her still be a kid, so she’s an adult. But they’re still both considered quite young by immortal standards, and Piers still thinks of Marnie as his little baby sister, so he’s very protective of her. They are both half-vampire, and half-banshee/fairy. As they are born vampires rather than turned, the rules for them are a bit different, but I will explain soon!
> 
> Hope you like it and thank you all for the kind comments last chapter!
> 
> P.S. quick note: no you didn’t go crazy, I shifted tenses and will be editing the first chapter to match, because it’s just more natural for me to write like this.


	3. Chapter 3

Raihan woke some hours later with a start, claws digging into the softness of the bed beneath him as his eyes snapped open to the dimly lit room. Blessedly, he remembered little of whatever dream he’d been having—there had been fangs and blood and pain, but beyond that, it was all a quickly fading blur. He felt a pressure at his chest and tensed on instinct, but looked down to find that it was Piers, brow furrowed as he clutched at Raihan’s skin with pale, enameled little claws. His mate was apparently sensing his distress, and burying deeper into his chest in response, likely turning away from the sunlight that still faintly seeped into the room from around the edges of the thick curtains that covered the windows. 

It occurred to Raihan then just how precarious things had become in his life. His mate, his one and only, would never stand beside him in the sun. They would never watch it rise or set together, and he would never walk hand in hand with him through the streets as it beat down on their backs. Each and every day, Piers would have to hide himself away, sleeping fitfully as the world outside basked in the rays that could easily set him alight like the driest tinder. Once, Raihan had practically rejoiced in the fact that vampires had such an obvious and easily exploited weakness, and he thought back to all the times he’d gleefully trapped vampires from their burrows and coffins, leaving them to roast in the sun’s unforgiving rays. Now, the mere thought of it sank a stone deep into the pit of his stomach. Reaching down, he smoothed a strand of the bizarrely two-toned hair out of Piers’ face, and watched him settle enough that the furrow in his brow gently vanished. 

A large part of Raihan wanted to stay exactly where he was, comforted by the warmth of the room and the way Piers’ cool body pressed against his as tightly as though he never wanted to let go, knowing in his sleep what he rejected while awake. But there was much to do, and the rumble of his gut told him it was better done sooner than later. Beside the bed, an electronic clock read out the time as 13:36, which would give him several hours before Piers awoke. The world was a stunningly new place, and as an immortal Raihan was well aware that the only two options were to adapt or pass on. Given that the latter wasn’t an easy option unless he found someone willing to behead him and carve the heart from his chest, it seemed that learning about this strange, twisting beast London had become was his only option. 

Slowly, he disentangled himself from Piers’ grip, and watched as the vampire curled in on himself, clutching a pillow close to his chest and sighing as he relaxed back into sleep. Satisfied that at least he wouldn’t be going anywhere and was safe as long as he remained in this room, Raihan made his way back to the bathroom to consider himself in the mirror. The first key to survival in any new place was to look as though one belonged—and a single glance in the mirror told Raihan that he was far from that. Starvation couldn’t kill an immortal, but decades without proper food or water had left him gaunt and stretched thin, his skin as dull as paper. Once proud locs were now matted and disgusting even after his time in the shower, and days worth of stubble grew ragged on his face. Even his fingernails were long and yellowed, and he winced in disgust at the picture he’d presented to his mate. No wonder he’d been terrified, Raihan looked like...well, exactly what he was. Certainly no kind of prince. 

His nails proved to be the easiest thing to care for—after rifling around the bathroom, he found a small pouch of bizarre cloth with a black pattern of skulls-and-crossbones on it that contained a variety of tools he didn’t know the use of, including several strange tubes of what he gleaned to be makeup only after opening them, something that looked like a small artist’s palette (also for makeup?) and even some pencils. It appeared that Piers, at least, put as much effort into his appearance as any court noble ever had. Given that none of this would match his skin tone and he’d never been particularly vested in doing more than the bare minimum for court functions anyhow, Raihan disregarded most of it and drew out a small pair of nail clippers. Blessed be that these were still in use. They’d been rather new the last time he was out in the world, but he was familiar enough with them that it was easy to snip his own fingernails down to a respectable length, and then clean them out with the hooked end of the tool in the sink. 

Next was his face; the shaving razor from the night before proved to be useful there, though he left himself patchy on the first pass due to the odd shape. What on earth had happened to the straight razors of the past? He would have to ask about it later, but for now satisfied himself with smoothing out his cheeks and only slicing his face once, which sluggishly healed within a matter of minutes. Again his stomach growled, and brought his attention back to the deepest plight. Rest and grooming were all well and good, but he needed a meal in his belly before his body would begin to patch itself properly. And for food, he would need money. 

Raihan found Piers’ satchel that he’d been carrying the night before still beside the door, and inside it, a smaller wallet that contained both paper monetary notes, and odd rectangles of black plastic. He was ready to discard these last, as they seemed utterly unfathomable with strings of numbers that made no sense and Piers’ name on them, but something in his instinct caused him to take a second look. Yes...they felt valuable, intensely so. Even more than the handful of paper notes. He had no idea what the currency of the day was, but perhaps a combination of the notes and these cards could buy him suitable food and clothing.

Concierges, at least, had not changed at all in the interceding century and a half. The human man standing behind the desk when Raihan took the moving room back downstairs was snobbish at best and regarded him with an utterly derisive look when he first attempted to speak to him, but when Raihan proffered the black plastic square, his eyes widened as though he’d been handed a bag of rubies and emeralds. He assured “Mr. Nezu” that he would be _delighted_ to help him meet every one of his needs; after all, airlines were so frustrating these days, what with losing luggage and personal belongings. Raihan had no idea what an ‘airline’ was, but nodded along and played the part of eccentric but wealthy sort who could simply snap his fingers to make all of his wishes come true. Except for the overall confusion, it wasn’t too far off the man he used to be, and the blustering confidence came naturally to him. Audacity was the trade of every noble worth their salt, and Raihan was more than used to squaring his shoulders and asserting himself as one to be obeyed. 

Breakfast was provided readily; eggs and some sort of reddish beans, along with thick sausages, sautéed mushrooms, heavy slabs of bacon, and large portions of toast to clean the plate with. He was also shocked to find coffee on the menu—another thing that had once been a rare delicacy was now apparently commonplace in the modern world. He drank two cups of that and water besides, relishing the bitter flavor on his tongue, and ate three plates of the food before his stomach began to protest being filled so suddenly. The nutrition did him good, though, and he could almost feel his body beginning to repair itself as he wiped his mouth clean and drained the last glass of water. So far, so good in the insane world, though he had yet to stray from the actual hotel building itself.

Food and drink sat well with him, and he felt far better when he stood up from the table than he had when he sat down. Dragons were creatures of earthly pleasures, and viewed hearty food and ale or wine almost as highly as they counted sex and money, which was to say stunningly high indeed. But they were also vain creatures, and when Raihan caught a glimpse of himself in one of the hotel lobby’s many mirrors, he realized that he was going to have to do far more than shave and clip his nails if he wanted to look more like a true dragon and less like a rotting revenant. When he put this question to the concierge, the man practically clicked his heels and eagerly reported that he had the name of an excellent stylist of natural hair nearby, and was certain that he could get Raihan an appointment within the hour. In the meantime, would he like to have a car called around and perhaps a magazine to entertain himself with as he waited?

Raihan said yes to both, and pretended utter boredom when he was handed another strange not-book like the one he’d seen on Piers’ table the night before. The ‘magazine’ proved to be like a periodical or newspaper, albeit with far more pictures. Most of the stories concerned people he’d never heard of who were apparently actors or musicians, and these he flipped past, but he read over everything that contained words and references he didn’t quite understand. Apparently, telephones were now small handheld devices—he’d have to get one—and much of the world was automated on a scale that would have been inconceivable in the nineteenth century. It was impressive, and when he finished with the magazine, he asked for a newspaper. This proved far more useful to him; he caught up on the politics of the day as best he could, though it was clear he’d need far more research before he truly understood this world. 

The ‘car’ came around and he folded up the newspaper to take it with him, stilling his inner turmoil and unease at the horseless carriage that arrived to whisk him away. At least the streets of London had been paved anew, and the ride was far less bumpy than he was accustomed to. Faster, too; they arrived at the stylist’s “hair salon” within a few minutes, and he was ushered out into another sort of lobby, albeit far smaller and sleeker than the one at the hotel. Everything here seemed bright white and painfully clean, though touches like flowers and another one of the flat slabs that projected _moving images_ of all things had been added in. It was like looking through a witches’ scrying-glass into another part of the world, and he tried not to shudder even though he felt no magic about the device. The woman sat behind the counter greeted him with a polite smile that became politer when he handed her the black plastic card, though he had to sign a small slip of paper in Piers’ name when the transaction was done. Odd world indeed. 

Minutes later, he was sat in a chair, and a young man with a single golden earring dangling from his ear was poking and examining the roots of his hair while making clicking noises with his tongue. “Blimey, mate, what have you _done_ to your hair?” Before, Raihan would have had him strongly reprimanded for such impudent and dear language when they were strangers, but it seemed par for the course in this time, so he decided to play the part. “Looks like you haven’t had it seen to in _years.”_

“Yeah...I’ve been locked away. Not a lot of time to look after my hair,” he murmured, like an excuse, and the young man’s brows shot up his head. 

“No shit? Congrats on the freedom, then. Though you don’t seem like the criminal type, if you don’t mind my saying.” Raihan offered him a faint smile in the mirror as a great cape was slung about his shoulders, and the young man pushed his hair over his shoulders. 

“You could say I was falsely accused. They recently decided to acquit me.” _Because I broke out and slaughtered every last one in my path, human, but you don’t need to know that._ “I’ve also recently found someone...special to me, and I want to impress him.” His chin stuck out a little bit, daring the youth to say something, but he only shook his head and smiled broadly at Raihan’s reflection. 

“Alright, bruv! Fresh out of the big house and already got yourself a man, gotta say I respect the game! But I’m gonna have to take most of this off, the ends are too damaged for me to do anything with. Okay?” Raihan nodded, and allowed the deft hands to slice away at the worst of the tangles. It felt good to have the weight drop away from his head, and he even allowed his eyes to slide shut as his chair was spun around and the stylist went to wash out his hair, though there was more chiding for how dirty it was and he murmured a quiet apology. 

After a long while of cutting, picking—another stylist had to be brought in to help with this—and deep conditioning with a wider variety of creams and oils than Raihan had even known existed, his hair was finally clean, and the pile on the floor behind the chair was the size of a small dog. He was grateful that at some point during his imprisonment his hair had simply stopped growing, likely because he’d not had enough food in his body to keep anything more than his basic, immortality-supported bodily functions. He’d also learned that his stylist’s name was Andrew and that the man would happily chatter about anything and everything, but didn’t seem to mind when Raihan asked seemingly obvious questions about the world, instead launching into a lengthy explanation of what football teams were best, how cellphones worked, and the merits of something called ‘Deliveroo’ which apparently could bring one food with the touch of a button. It took easily another two hours to put the rest of his hair back into the locs, and he was left with short twists that were just long enough to be tied back with a small, stretchy band that Andrew gave him. Still, the effect was smart and clean, and again Raihan found himself feeling far more like the dragon prince of old. He stood, thanking Andrew and offering him one of the larger notes from Piers’ wallet as a tip, which earned him a friendly smile and clap on the shoulder.

“Look, if that guy of yours doesn’t want you after all that work, just throw ‘im out on his arse. You look amazing, come back here the next time you need ‘em twisted.” Perhaps, in another time and place, he would have taken the unsubtle flirtation as it was and kept Andrew in mind, but the second his thoughts turned back to Piers, it was as though the handsome face fled from his mind completely. He thought of Piers cupping his face and stroking his hair gently, and the satisfaction of that thought alone instantly cured any anxiety he felt about being out in the strange world of the twenty-first century. 

When he got back into the car that had been summoned for him, he leaned forward to tap on the glass and asked the driver when sunset was, and learned it was about half past six. According to the clock set into the odd panel at the front of the vehicle, he had about an hour before Piers awoke. Enough time to get a change of clothes, then. 

Except that when he asked the concierge about this, it turned out that the response was far more complicated than he’d expected. Judging by Piers’ clothes alone—and those on every other person he saw—fashion had evolved in bizarre ways from the styles he’d been accustomed to, but that was to be expected. Yet now it appeared that rather than there being a handful of fashionable nobles and designers that everyone else based their attire on, there was...utter anarchy. No two people looked the same, and while there were still overall styles based on the catalogues and magazines the concierge brought, it was difficult to pick out exactly what one man needed. He finally told the concierge to use his best judgment, and after having his measurements taken by a tailor, was assured that his new clothing would be sent to his room. In the meantime, he was given trousers made out of a strange, hardy blue material and a contrastingly soft cashmere shirt in a forest green color, a dark leather driving jacket not unlike the one Piers had been wearing, a leather billfold to place his _room key_ and _debit card_ in, and a pair of short shoes in white cloth that were shockingly comfortable when he slid them on. There was also a pair of tinted spectacles, he assumed to keep the sunlight out of his eyes, but given that he intended to spend most of the night awake, they seemed hardly useful. 

He took the small moving room up again, noting that the concierge had referred to it as a _lift_ , and felt no small surge of pride as he stepped out into the hallway. One day successfully assimilated into the modern world. He had a solid meal in him, new clothes on his back, his hair and body were clean, and his mate awaited him in his room. It felt almost like contentment, and while the sensation was foreign to him after all these years, he embraced it welcomely. He’d even begun to learn the dialect of this time, and catch up on current affairs. It was likely that he’d need some sort of historical record to truly brush himself up, but in this modern world of ease, it seemed that it would be no trouble to come by such a text.

After struggling with the door for a moment, he figured out the locking system and turned the handle, entering the darkened room and finding it empty.

Lunging inside, he felt a snarl gather on his lips. Had Piers fled? No, there were his clothes, still in a pile on the floor, and the bed was unmade. Had someone taken him, then? They would be dead before sunrise if that were the case. His claws sunk into the wall and plaster crumbled between them in a shower. The door closed behind him with a loud clicking sound, and then, as though summoned from thin air, Piers’ head poked up from the far side of the bed. 

The tension drained from Raihan’s shoulders, even though it was uncanny how Piers woke without blinking or stretching; he merely came awake and stood, hair ruffled and hands fluttering. He’d gone to sleep on the far side of the bed—of course. Vampires loved low and enclosed places, and he’d sought the comfort of the narrow wedge between the bed and the wall in Raihan’s absence. 

“Frightened me with that, I thought you’d been taken,” he murmured, and then caught Piers’ wide gaze and followed it to where his hand was still lodged in the wall. He removed it, and more plaster fell to the floor, and he cleared his throat in lieu of an apology. 

Piers shook his head, thin arms crossed over the front of his body, hair falling in a shower around his shoulders. Gods, even freshly awake he was lovely. “No, I just...like to sleep down there sometimes.” Then his eyes seemed to register Raihan’s changes, because they got bigger and bigger as he looked all the way down and then all the way back up. “Oh...you look... _good_.” The faint inflection on that word alone had Raihan puffing out his chest in pride.

——

 _You look like sex on legs. That’s so fucking unfair. What the hell did you go and do while I was sleeping?_

There was always such fierce whiplash with this man. On one hand, Piers knew he should fear him. Raihan was easily capable of causing him pain, and Piers hated pain more than anything else in the world, despite what his attitude and piercings might say about him. Masochism was the farthest thing from his lifestyle, and even being around Raihan seemed dangerous. Yet at the same time, Raihan had been...afraid for him? He’d lashed out just now, clawing through the wall like butter, but only because he’d been frightened that Piers had been taken away. Without a heartbeat to give him away, he’d been well hidden in his little nook. 

The truth was, as much as Piers logically knew he should fear and despise Raihan, perhaps even wanted to, there was an overwhelming curiosity and no small amount of attraction keeping him right where he was. He opened his mouth to say something, to ask more about what Raihan had done while he was asleep, but something else came out entirely. “What are you?”

Raihan’s eyes snapped to his and he stiffened, freezing under that icy yet burning gaze. How it could feel both hot and frigid at the same time was beyond him, but there was some darkness there that he didn’t know how to name. Raihan drew his chin up, and then responded.

“You really didn’t know? I’m a _Drakarys_ , dragon-shifter.” He smirked a little, as though something pleasing had suddenly come to mind. “In fact, if my memory serves correctly, I am their prince.” 

Well. That was a hum-dinger of a bomb to drop. Piers spun internally like he’d been punched, and had to sit down on the end of the bed. A _dragon?_ They were incredibly rare; shifters, as a general breed, were one of the most populous groups of the Mythics, but dragon-shifters were few and far between. Unlike other shifters, they almost never mated outside of their own kind, and once they did, it was for life. They had few children, and unlike vampires or werewolves, were unable to further their species in any other way. They mainly kept to themselves, and Piers didn’t think even Kabu, the oldest and most well-traveled Fey he knew, had met one more than a handful of times. 

And here he was, after having just spent the day in bed with their prince. 

Well. They’d only slept, but still. He brushed a few strands of hair out of his face, and blinked up at Raihan in shock. None of this made any sense. “Then...why me? Why are you even here? We’ve never met, we don’t know each other. And...dragons hate vampires.” Along with many other species. “Just...I don’t fucking understand any of this. It’s totally insane. What do you want from me?”

Raihan again looked a little like Piers had slapped him, though this time, his shoulders were still squared and the violence in his eyes had died back to embers. Then he sighed, not quite repentant, but seeming weary instead. “I don’t entirely understand it myself. I’ve been locked away by your kind for over a century now. Tortured. Maddened. By all rights, I should have torn you to shreds in that alleyway and left your scraps for the daylight, but...I cannot find it in myself to harm you. Whenever you’re near, it’s as though my head clears. Thoughts make sense again. I know that I need you to help me reach my home.” 

Piers looked to the tiny slit in the curtains he’d accidentally opened in his rush to stand when Raihan came in, the lights of the city twinkling as they had since before he even existed. Raihan kept saying things like that, casually acting as though Piers was so important, but he didn’t understand how or why. Neither of them did, it seemed. What was Piers supposed to do in the face of a species rivalry that had existed for millennia? And yet, Raihan acted like he was the only one capable of doing anything, at least for him.

He found he couldn’t say no to that sort of call. Turning back, he did his best to square up to Raihan as well, following Melony’s old advice to never let your opponent see you tremble. “You do frighten me, though. You’ve attacked me, you’ve proven time and again that you can be violent and cruel, and your strength is terrifying to me. But if you really want my help, and if you can really promise that you won’t hurt me, then I’ll do what I can. I’m in London on my own business, though, so for the time being, we’re staying here.” Even though that search had all but petered out, he still felt like putting his foot down, partially just to assert that he could do so. Maybe in another night or two they could leave, but...he wanted one last look around the place before he admitted defeat, and Raihan didn’t have to know that. Not in so many words, at least.

To his surprise, Raihan only nodded gravely. “I swear on my crown, and the Mythos. I will not harm you, not as I am sane and conscious to help it.” Sane and conscious—that was the key hang-up. Raihan _didn’t_ seem like he was holding onto sanity with the firmest of grips, though if what he said about being tortured for over a century was true, then it certainly made sense. And by vampires, too. Again, Piers felt that perhaps it was hopeless, perhaps he would only make the situation worse, and yet Raihan continued to stand there. Offering him something akin to trust. 

He didn’t understand it, but he felt the need to accept it. He would do this, he would help, because as he’d learned from Feykind, sometimes the best justice is doing what one can. That, and Fate often punishes those who do not. “Okay. Then I’ll do it. But tonight, I’m going to go and take a shower, and then we’re going out. I have research I want to get done.” If Raihan had anything to say to this, Piers didn’t give him the chance, whisking around the edge of the bed and into the bathroom to close the door behind him. He realized all too late that he hadn’t brought in a change of clothes, but it was _his_ hotel room, dammit! Raihan could face the wall for a few minutes. 

Stripping down in the bathroom, he took an extra moment to examine himself in the mirror, and sighed at what he found. While his immortal body was frozen in an unchanging state, and wounds short of decapitation or sun exposure could be healed with time, it didn’t stop him from showing certain wear and tear. Days without blood had left his skin sallow and even paler than normal, his hair beginning to dull and hang limp, and even his eyes looking darker than they should. He needed to feed, and he was getting close to being willing to chop off his arm for a bag of O Negative. His favorite flavor. Banshees rarely ate, although most Fey Folk enjoyed sugar and caffeine, to the point that half the baristas in any given cafe were most likely Fey or descended from their lines. But coffee alone wouldn’t subsist him for long, and he didn’t know how to bring up this need to Raihan. Not when he’d reacted with such fervent disgust to Piers’ fangs the first night, and just admitted that vampires had locked him away for several human lifetimes.

Something would have to be done. For the moment, he went and turned on the faucet, letting the steaming water pour out and stepping underneath the spray with a comforted sigh. His body temperature was also lower than most humans’, but he always loved the warmth of a good hot bath or shower. It wasn’t as though he could go sunbathing, so this was the next best thing. He reached for the soap, pausing for a second when he saw the razor Raihan had so casually waved around. In one minute, he’d been acting like Piers’ vampire status disgusted him, and in the next, offering to feed him. It didn’t make sense, and trying to follow the erratic behavior was beginning to make Piers want to tear his hair out. Instead, he picked up the soap and lathered it over his body, jumping when the bar passed over his chest and he recalled in a flash how he’d been in here the night before, pinned up against these same tiles. Raihan’s large hands had slid across his wet skin so expertly, and even now, he felt himself hardening a little at the memory. It had been so long since someone _wanted_ to touch him like that, and as much as his mind was confused and frightened by the man, his body responded with an instinctive desire. His response bewildered him. He wondered for a moment how he would have reacted to those touches if Raihan hadn’t been as unhinged as he was. 

At least now he knew what had put him so on edge. Dragons weren’t precisely known for their easy tempers, though they certainly weren’t as short as a werewolf, or some of the more volatile demons. Reaching for the shampoo, Piers began to wash the ends of his hair and thought back to all the things Kabu had ever told him about the Drakarys people. There were populations of them scattered throughout North Africa and across the Asian continent, even as far as China and Japan. Each housed a dragon spirit inside of their body, another form that they could turn to for strength and power when they needed it. They had a powerful sense of acquisitiveness, and were often stunningly good with money and finances. They could even sense the value of an object just by holding it, or possibly by smelling it. Immortal, fantastically strong, and driven mainly by their love of wealth and other basic elementals of life, including food, sex, and fine clothing. Certainly made sense with what Raihan had strolled in wearing just now, and how sensuously his hands had stroked over Piers. 

It was both difficult to imagine Raihan as a dragon, and stunningly easy. Something about him was just utterly _kingly_ in that way, a certain carriage to his gate and a glint in his eye that said he was beyond humanity, and most Mythics besides. His jawline was strong, his eyes were the kind of blue that riveted one in place, and his glorious muscles coated his frame like a dancer, giving him a lithe and graceful strength. Every inch of him was nothing short of _divine,_ and Piers shivered a little as he recalled the way Raihan had looked at him with that starving expression on his face. But he could also be cruel, Piers reminded himself as he rinsed his hair clean. Cruel and brutal and definitely on a dangerous edge. How could he be so aroused by a man he ought to be running from screaming?

The confusion in his body and mind were exhausting, and he leaned against the shower wall as he worked thick conditioner into his long hair. His thoughts turned to Marnie, and he wondered how she was faring in his absence. Likely well; Marnie had always been an independent sort of girl even before her turn to immortality, and she’d recently decided to return to school for a PhD program. Piers himself had graduated with a Masters’ degree in history, and felt only pride for Marnie’s further accomplishments. It was easy enough to stack these things when you had all the time in the world to study and learn. Still, it had been weeks since he’d seen her in person, and his heart ached a little with missing her. It was rare that they took very much time apart from one another, and he wished desperately that he could trade all of these complicated thoughts and feelings for a simple hug from his baby sister. 

Lathering and rinsing the last of the conditioner out of his hair, he thought over what a typical week would be like if he were back home with Melony and the others. Sometimes Gordie would show up after his travels to Australia or wherever else he went off to in search of new adventures and things to vlog about. He and Piers had never gotten on extremely well, but they were on amiable enough terms. Monday through Fridays were usually taken up with reading, band practice, lyric writing, occasionally prepping for a gig, and doing any errands or research Kabu might need taking care of. Fridays and Saturdays he usually sought out late-night gigs and concerts, and Sundays were given over primarily to lazing about, playing with some of the various supernatural creatures and pets the Fey liked to keep around for entertainment. That, and he’d video chat Marnie almost every night. If it weren’t for a few tiny hitches, his life would be damn near perfect. 

Shutting off the water, he reached for a towel and frowned as he considered that thought again. A few tiny hitches? Who was he kidding, there was a lot in his life that needed turning around. A certain...absence of romance or sex, for one. Even close companionship often eluded him; though he desperately loved his family, he had few friends. His ‘band’ was essentially him and a few other human musicians who regularly left to join more successful groups, as it was hard to ascend to true fame when you knew you’d have to fake a death or disappearance in a few short decades before anyone noticed you didn’t age. That, and he didn’t know of anyone else who spent as much of their time fretting over their own innate nature as he did.

Marnie was like him, but also not. As a female banshee, her Fey side had manifested young, and almost entirely eclipsed the vampire part of her nature. For reasons no one could quite understand, she drank very little blood in comparison to him, and she’d been giving proper banshee screeches since she was a small child. Piers had never even managed a single one, even when he’d purposely waited all night outside a hospice center, morbidly desperate to provoke that side of his nature. He was one of a kind, and it seemed like that kind was the worst of two worlds. Melony loved him dearly and Marnie often tried to relate, but so much of the time he felt a sting of loneliness he could never quite escape. 

As he began to blow dry his hair, he sighed at himself. He’d come to London to learn more about his parents, hoping that a familial tie might at least explain why he was the way he was, if not make him feel a little more at home in the world. And if he could discover more about his vampire half, maybe he could ease his fears that he was one tiny step away from snapping and turning into a red-eyed monster.

No one deserved to live with the daily fear that he was a stroke away from madness.

When he finished with his hair, he tied it back in his customary ponytail, allowing the shorter part in the front to frame his face. A quick hand smudged on some eyeliner and a bit of foundation in an effort to look more ‘goth’ and less ‘actually dead’, though he wasn’t sure it did much for the overall look. He was almost finished when the broken door lock behind him opened and Piers startled violently, jumping in the air with a hiss and baring of his fangs. In the mirror, he saw Raihan’s fists clench and then release, and he held his towel up around himself, willing his fangs back into his gums. 

One hit from a man as strong as Raihan could probably tear his head clean off. He thought back to the crumbled wall, the shredded wallpaper, the way he’d thrown Piers around like a rag doll. The crushing iron grip that would have left him with bruises if he were human. He was a fool to think that Raihan could truly promise not to hurt him when he reacted to Piers’ very nature with such hatred? Idiot. Of all the things he ought to fear, pain topped his list. And there was Raihan, always ready with a new dose of it. He clenched his fingertips on the marble countertop, bracing for what might come, but Raihan only muttered a curse in what might have been Arabic and stormed from the bathroom. 

Piers blinked his eyes open again after a second, and wrapped the towel tight around his body before finishing up with his makeup and checking his jewelry in the mirror. To his surprise, when he exited the bedroom, Raihan was nowhere to be found. Instead, the hotel’s notepad had a message for him in neat, looping handwriting. 

_Piers,_

_I have gone down to the concierge to get the rest of the clothing I purchased and have it sent up here to stay with your things. Then I will acquire us a car for the evening, but you must choose the destination. I will meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes. —R_

There would have to be words about the abuse of his credit card, which Raihan had clearly stolen—how the hell did he even know how to work one?—but Piers took a deep breath in through his nose. Not the thing he was the most concerned with right now. Like all of the Fey in Melony’s care, he had a generous monthly allowance, though he’d been saving up for a new amp set. Apparently, that would have to wait a little longer. But he put his towel back on the rack and set to dressing himself, and opened the door to the room’s ample closet. For a moment, there was a quick flash in the back of his mind that wondered what Raihan would like him to wear. Then he quickly quashed it, and grabbed something that made him feel sexy but absolutely had nothing to do with a dragon’s opinion of him. 

No matter how damnably handsome the bastard might be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I really enjoy writing about clothes and getting makeovers. Besides, they both desperately need it...and it’s good for the mutual pining.
> 
> Probably won’t update until later next week, because I’m getting my wisdom teeth removed on the Friday that this is posted, and intend to be knocked out for the entire weekend. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> For clarity: “the Mythos”= the entire magical world, including places and objects that are magic or supernatural in some respect, whereas “Mythics” refers specifically to magical species and creatures.


	4. Chapter 4

Once he’d gotten himself dressed and had checked that everything was in order in case room service came by, all Mythic-related items tucked away in enchanted lock boxes or spare bags, Piers took out his phone and scrolled down to Marnie’s number again. He could call her; Raihan was waiting, but he could wait a minute longer. It would be good to hear her voice again, an anchor of normalcy in the swirling insanity the past twenty-four hours had become. It was almost seven-thirty here in London, which meant it was an hour later on the continent, and Marnie would surely be up and about already. But right as his thumb hovered over the number, Piers bit into his lower lip and realized he had nothing that he could say about all this. If he told her the entire story, she’d probably panic that he’d been kidnapped and send Kabu and all the other Fey warriors crashing into London to get him back. Which...wasn’t quite the response he was after. Raihan was terrifying, yes. Powerful beyond anything Piers had ever seen before. But he also seemed like he was desperate for something he hadn’t voiced yet, and he wanted Piers’ help. It was the first time in a long time someone had been dependent on him, and a greedy part of Piers surged forward at the sensation of being so _needed._ The situation wasn’t out of control, not yet at least. He didn’t need a bail-out from the entire cavalry as he had called for so many times in his life.

He didn’t have to be Piers the Petrified this time. All around him as he grew up were legendary warriors, heroes of Feykind, fighters and brawlers and magicians that would have knocked the socks off J.R.R. Tolkien and his ilk. Mythics who had gone forth and adventured in the deepest, darkest parts of the world, and hadn’t flinched from the danger. Meanwhile, Piers was liable to get spooked if he saw a spider while playing in the hallways of their massive mansion, and the one time he’d seen a ghoul when he was much younger, he ran bawling to cling to Melony’s skirts while Marnie patted his shoulder and told him that a dead thing couldn’t harm him, and after all, he was mostly dead too. The only courage he’d ever had was when it came to getting up on stage and singing his heart out about the things he cared for, the human-world causes that other Mythics always regarded him as ‘a bit strange’ for caring about, as though he were a child prone to bringing home orphaned animals in shoeboxes. His lack of courage had never been something that particularly embarrassed him, though, because he’d always been the weak one and was well aware of it. Kabu had tried to teach him about fire magics, but Piers had only burnt off one of his eyebrows. Gordie’s sword collection had always twisted his wrists uncomfortably when he tried to lift one, and even Marnie could jump and dodge and pirouette out of the way much faster than he’d ever managed. Any attempts at training had just left him battered, so why bother? His senses weren’t as sharp and his muscles weren’t as toned as a Mythic’s should be; he was a born loser, and the best way to survive was running away from the things that frightened him, not towards. 

But for once, just once in his lame little eternity, he wanted to face this challenge head-on. It was crazy, it was probably stupid. _Definitely_ stupid, he mentally amended after looking at the deep rivulets drawn by Raihan’s claws in the plaster of the wall. Yet for some reason, his normal fear response simply wasn’t kicking in. Or rather, it was kicking in to the point that he logically knew Raihan was frightening, but not to the point that he felt like running away yet. Maybe it would cost him his life and maybe it wouldn’t, but just this once, he wanted to find out for sure instead of assuming the worst about himself. He tapped on Marnie’s number but hit “text” instead of “call”, and typed out a quick message.

_Hey little sis_

_I’m missing you xx_

_Hope your studies are going well_

_Don’t give yourself a headache reading too much. Remember to take breaks. Send me anything you want me to read over_

That seemed fine. Like his usual texts, at least. Enough to keep her from worrying about him, and enough to reassure himself that he was doing his duty as an older brother and looking out for her, despite the fact that she hadn’t needed that from him in decades. Then he stuffed his phone into his bag, checked the hall mirror to make sure he didn’t have any lipstick on his teeth, and then headed downstairs. 

When he came out of the elevator, Raihan was already waiting outside in the drive, in the most conspicuous location possible. Even across the lobby, Piers could tell that sea-green gaze was locked onto him, watching his every little movement. Instead of curling in on himself though, he tightened his fingers around the strap of his bag and squared his shoulders as he started to make his way across the lobby, drifting through the humans that alternately milled and rushed about. Why the hell was Raihan standing next to a...Mercedes? The car was sleek and black, practically glowing under the lights of the hotel’s entryway, but Piers had no idea why the hell he’d ordered such an expensive car for them if they were only going a short distance. Did a Drakarys really feel the need to be _this_ ostentatious? And the driver was probably already frustrated that he’d had to sit there for so long; Piers cursed under his breath and walked a little faster. 

As he drew closer to Raihan, the golden light of the arcade overhead poured over his skin, and illuminated the gaze that was still hooked into Piers. It wasn’t the look of a predator watching prey, not quite hitting that air of danger, but there was still something utterly _devouring_ about it and Piers knew that if he had a heartbeat, it would be hammering a mile a minute right now. He’d been looked at with lust before, certainly. You didn’t go out in all-black PVC and lipstick without attracting a few hungry stares. But Raihan wasn’t just glancing at him with a fleeting want; he was eating Piers up with his eyes an inch at a time. The gaze was almost tangible, sliding like a pair of hands over his body and Piers’ lips parted faintly as he felt the ghosts of Raihan’s caresses in the shower against his skin. He felt..naked, somehow, as though he’d gone without underwear, like he held some dirty little secret between himself and Raihan only. It felt like there was some lead between them growing taut, dragging him in—or no, not forcing. Just beckoning and luring until his feet seemed to move forward of their own volition. There was a half-second of panic when he wondered if this was his hunger setting in again, if he needed to control it before something happened _in public,_ but a quick flick of his tongue told him that his fangs hadn’t dropped. 

No, his hunger for Raihan was an entirely different variety this time. When he straightened up a little further Raihan mirrored him, coming off his casual lean on the car and uncrossing his broad arms from over his chest. He looked like a celebrity of some kind, or perhaps just a ridiculously wealthy man; most Mythics were attractive, but Raihan was eye-catching even for them. His immense height alone drew stares, but now with the fine cut of his clothes and his freshly shaven face, he looked like a supermodel and then some. Everything about him said _I’m big, I’m rich, and I just might be all the right kinds of trouble._ Something that felt almost like jealousy twinged in Piers’ chest; would Raihan look over others with this same gaze? If everyone found him this attractive, then it was no wonder he could have his pick of the litter. He’d likely had men and women throwing themselves at him for his entire adult life. 

But right now, Piers felt like the only man in the world as he came to a stop beside the car, and Raihan’s face somehow brightened out of the faint stoicism it had held before. There was still an edge of tension in his shoulders and along the hard line of his jaw, showing just how nervous he felt in this frightening new world. Yet there was also the shadow of a smile playing around his lips, and Piers sensed that it would be utterly stunning once it was unleashed. 

“I’ve rented us this car for the evening. It should be to your standard,” he rumbled, and Piers blinked as the spell finally popped like a bubble bursting. _Rented?_ This? God, Melony was going to _murder_ him for the credit card abuse. Like most Mythics they were more than wealthy, as it was hard to live for centuries and not accrue plenty of cash, but they still tried to keep it on the down-low. No private jets and insane parties, and certainly no thousand-pound car rentals just for the evening. “I know that you can operate a car, I saw your ‘driver’s license’ in your bag when I looked through it earlier.” And while Piers had gathered this from Raihan’s sudden wardrobe change, the mere fact that he admitted to going through his things so casually turned all the humming tension he’d felt between them a moment ago into nothing but a frustrated sort of annoyance. He almost stamped his foot, but instead settled for pinching between his eyebrows and taking a deep breath.

“Alright, Drakarys. Two things. One, we do not _need_ a car. Most of where we’re going can be reached on foot, or by bus, or on the Tube. London is one of the most congested cities in the world, and this car eats gas like nothing on this planet, and gas is expensive. Not to mention that if we get even a little mud spattered on it, the cleaning charges are going to be beyond obnoxious. Second thing, you do. _Not._ Go. Through. My. Stuff. Got it?” 

Raihan blinked, looking a bit like a puppy who wasn’t quite sure why his toy had been taken away, and hadn’t made up his mind whether to be upset about it or not. Perhaps that had been a little harsh; yes, the car was stupidly expensive, but Raihan didn’t know any better. Piers wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen one before last night. Still, he stood his ground on the matter of his belongings, and to his surprise, Raihan’s shoulders fell and he leaned forward, looking moderately sheepish. 

“I do apologize. I...did not know that a car was not something easily procured, and the concierge informed me one would be helpful. That, and...I only went through your belongings because I needed money to right myself. Will not happen again,” he murmured, and Piers felt again a sense of odd whiplash about being around Raihan. Sometimes he seemed genuine, honest, the kind of man that Piers could find himself thinking of as a friend—or even possibly more—and other times, he seemed to ride a terrifying line of viciousness and cruelty. Piers didn’t understand it, and he was about to open his mouth to make some kind of concession when he felt _something_ appear in the shadowy darkness beyond the hotel’s lights. A trace, a chill...but what? From where? Raihan stiffened too, and Piers swore his pupils narrowed like a serpent’s as he moved to brace one arm against the car, caging Piers in. 

Something was out there. Something was watching. 

Then, as though it had been nothing more than a turn of the wind, the sensation of eyes on them vanished, and Piers looked forward and realized that he’d curled his claws into the front of Raihan’s fancy new shirt, and he removed them with a faint blush. Raihan’s pupils expanded again to a human dimension, and he looked down at Piers with a calculating expression. “Come, we ought to be leaving,” he murmured, and reached around Piers to open the car door for him, expression unreadable in his chivalry.

Pretending not to be shaken, Piers got inside and fastened his seatbelt, mechanically turning the key already in the ignition and starting to pull out of the hotel’s driveway. Beside him, he could feel Raihan looking at him intently, and finally looked over, knuckles whiter than usual against the steering wheel. “What?”

“You felt something out there, the same as I did. I am wondering if you know better than I do who or what it was.” It took Piers a second to parse the old-fashioned way of speaking, and then he fixed Raihan with his best glare, feeling a little bolder now that he was the one controlling the thousand-pound metal machine. 

“I do not. Not every vampire knows one another, and I didn’t even—it could have been a demon just as easily. It’s not like you’re on speaking terms with every shapeshifter on the planet.” Raihan raised his brows slightly, seeming to concede the point, but there was a tension still in his shoulders as Piers merged into the downtown traffic and turned them towards Trafalgar Square.

——

Raihan turned to watch Piers as he pulled the car out of the hotel’s drive, and merged into the nearest large street. He was handsome tonight—gods above, Raihan hadn’t been able to look away as Piers had crossed the hotel lobby, his oddly banded hair drawing every eye in the room. He seemed to think of himself as meager, unimpressive, and yet men and women from every corner had been gazing at him in a way that made Raihan’s blood boil at the same time it made his pride surge. They tracked the expense of his clothes, the sleekness of his hair and the sway of his hips that made him look positively alluring from every angle, and he’d heard more than one heartbeat speed as he passed. Humans would yearn for a body like his, for even a single word of praise from his lips. Vampire trickery or no, it was so enticing Raihan had needed to swallow down a growl as he approached. It was damnable and he wanted to curse him for it, at the same time he wanted to kiss him until his eyes crossed.

Yet now he was huffing and tense, his slim shoulders raised to a hard line against the car’s seats. Always on edge. Yet Raihan couldn’t fault him for that, not when there _had_ been something stalking them just moments ago. He hadn’t been able to see what it was, not in the ever-morphing shadows of the city, but it felt menacing, and that alone was enough to make him want to rip it to shreds for threatening his mate. The mate he shouldn’t have, the one his mind must be deranged to want. Every turn felt like a contradiction, and he stared down at the blunt ends of his fingers, willing them not to slide into claws. 

He’d been an easygoing man, once. Kind, even. He can remember laughing, smiling, joking and playing with his friends. He can remember humor and joy, for his life had been one of ease and grace. Yet now that man, that prince of dragons felt so far away it was as though it were a different lifetime when he’d been _him._ If that Raihan had been told one day he’d be sitting in a horseless carriage, rocketing through the brilliantly colored streets of London next to a slim little vampire his instincts screamed was his own chosen mate, he would have laughed himself sick at the thought. That laughing, happy version of himself was a world away, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to bridge that gap again.

Shaking himself from this melancholy train of thought, he turned his attention instead to Piers, looking him over once more. At the very least, he was pleasant enough for this purpose; up close, Raihan could see the faint veins that turned his eyelids a blueish purple, the skin so pale as to be nearly translucent. His wrists were delicate enough that they might easily be held in one of Raihan’s palms, and his lips had been an inviting shell-pink color before, and were now painted with a deep, wine-dark color that made Raihan want to smear it across both their mouths. Yet the longer he looked, the deeper the furrow between dark brows grew, and he realized with a sort of pleasure that his look was irritating Piers, so he continued it. It was almost amusing to watch the faint annoyance rise inside him higher and higher until finally his knuckles gripped the wheel he was apparently using to steer this automobile, and he took his eyes off the road for a moment to shoot daggers at Raihan in the passenger seat. 

“What now?” Raihan played innocent, leaning back in his seat and feigning ignorance of his actions as he dragged his finger along the arm-rest jutting from the door, and discovered with a start the button that controlled the windows rising and falling.

“I was merely admiring how well you handle this machine. It’s impressive to control such a thing, and I’d like to learn someday.” Piers gave a little huff at this explanation, clearly unsatisfied, but now he was no longer thinking about whatever was watching them at the hotel, and Raihan could handle a vampire’s irritation directed towards him.

“Well, they teach plenty of courses on it, and you have to take a test to prove you’re good enough to operate a car. With a pencil, and paper. Maybe I’ll get you a textbook,” he said, even as he slowed to turn a sharp corner. The roads of London weren’t quite as narrow as they once were, but they’ve not widened much, either. Raihan was also a little stuck on what the hell a ‘textbook’ was—didn’t all books have text by their very nature? He floundered for a moment, not wanting to let the conversation die, and then spotted the various gauges and dials that rested behind the wheel Piers was holding. He selected a random one, and pointed to it. 

“What is that?” Piers’ expression still said that he wished Raihan would spontaneously combust, but his eyes flicked down and then back up at the road as they moved on from a stopping point at a crossroads. 

“That would be the fuel gauge. Tells us how much petrol we’ve got.” Petrol must be what made the car run, then. Raihan surmised that the “E” must stand for “empty” and the “F” likely stood for “full”. Sensible enough. He pointed to the next one, and repeated the question.

“...That’s the speedometer. It’s for kilometers per hour.” Raihan’s lips were starting to form the next question, and Piers stomped harshly on the brake at another intersection. “You know _damn_ well what a kilometer is, don’t even fucking ask! If you’re going to grill me, Drakarys, then I get to grill you back.” Raihan didn’t know what ‘grill’ meant in this context, but he felt he was starting to get the hang of the language of the day. Piers wanted to ask him questions, he could deal with that. 

“Very well. Ask away, I’m an open book.” To show his ease, he folded his hands behind his head and rested back against the seat, which earned him yet another huff for his troubles. Still...he watched Piers debate it to himself, even as he navigated between the cars all around them and turned onto a much larger street full of more traffic.

After a moment, he realized that the red-yellow-green pattern of the lights hung above the road was some sort of signal to the traffic below, with red for stop and green for go. Clever. Piers pushed a little of his hair back behind one faintly pointed ear—almost elfin, though Raihan wasn’t sure why. He’s never seen a vampire with ears like that before, but it wasn’t his turn to ask a question. “Okay—how did you know what a credit card is? You went through my stuff, but I didn’t have enough cash for all the clothes you bought, much less a haircut and this car, so I know you used it. But how did you even know what it is, if you’ve been locked away for so long? Did you really do that thing where you sense the value of an object just by holding it? I thought for sure that was a myth.” 

Raihan almost wanted to laugh at the question; for Piers it seemed like a difficult conundrum, but for him, it was the easiest answer Piers could have asked for. “Not a myth at all, but a fact of Drakarys. I was going for the notes and coins, but when I held that little piece of plastic up, it set all my senses alight as the most valuable thing in your entire wallet. The concierge showed me how to use it, and that was it. Drakarys are drawn to objects of value—tangible or otherwise. Something like that was bound to attract me, even when I didn’t know the first thing about it.” Piers raised his eyebrows at that, then seemed to think over this information, his teeth catching at his lower lip as he pondered. In this light he looked so very human, and his fangs were completely tucked away. If it weren’t for the coldness and lack of a heartbeat, the mistake could easily be made. Raihan only wished it were such a trifling thing to be waved away.

They pulled up behind another car, and another quickly filled in beside them. Road congestion was apparently still a thing, even in this day and age. The car idled, and Piers tapped his painted nails against the wheel. “Alright, looks like we’re gonna be here a minute. Ask me your next question.” At least he was playing along now, and Raihan allowed himself the first query that came to mind.

“Not that it much matters to me, but where the hell are we going? You’ve not said yet.” Those blue eyes got as round as dinner-plates for a second, and then Piers inched the car forward. 

“I—shit, I really didn’t say. We’re going to the National Portrait Gallery. I…” He trails off for a moment, and then his thin shoulders rise and fall on a sigh. “Okay, so before you showed up with your,” there’s a gesture here, intended to encompass all of Raihan, “Everything, I really was in London on personal business. I don’t actually live here all the time, my home is elsewhere in England. But I was looking for information on my family, and trying to come up with some sort of lead on my parents. My mother died when I was very young, right after having Marnie—that’s my younger sister—and my father left before I can even remember his face. Maybe he died, maybe not. Point is, I never knew anything real about them, and I wanted to learn, so I came to London to look because I’ve learned they had a home here together for a time. Mythics tend to have both money and power, so I thought perhaps they might have a portrait in the gallery that could lend me some kind of clue.” 

The car in front of them inched forward, and Raihan furrowed his brow as he waded through all of that. Mother and father? A little sister? None of the vampires he’d encountered have ever had siblings, much less parents, unless the entire family was turned at once. Yet Piers was acting as though it was all some sort of huge mystery, and he couldn’t fathom why. What fact or puzzle-piece was he missing here? Not to mention that the National Portrait Gallery seemed like a hell of a long shot to simply hope to find information on one of his parents. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, and not being sure which haystack the needle was in to begin with. Piers must be at loose ends to figure out the answers that he seeks, and something about that stirred Raihan’s gut. Whatever insanity compelled him to think this man was his mate also wanted him to help on this impossible quest, even as another part of him raged at the ridiculousness of all of this. 

Then a memory sparked in the back of his own mind, and a tendril of pure satisfaction curled up in his chest. Oh yes, he’d be _delighted_ to go to an art museum with Piers. His dragon practically purred at the thought, and he couldn’t keep the smug look off his face. The benefits to being wealthy nobility truly were endless, even in the modern day and age. The fact that there was now apparently a National Portrait Gallery was of no consequence—he knew well how little museums liked to let go of pieces once they were held in their collections, and though in the past he’d been keen to lament the fact that no price ever seemed to tempt them to relinquish certain works, now it made him as satisfied as a cat with a bowl of cream.

“I see. That’s one hell of a story, little vampire. But if that’s your demand of me tonight, I see no reason not to go along with it. It will be good for me to be out and about in the modern world; it’ll help me to adjust. I’d like to learn more about what’s changed since I’ve been...away.” All at once, the car in front of them moved off, and Piers turned their own vehicle down a narrow side street. Pubs and boutique fashion stores flashed past, and they headed down the winding roads towards the center of town, finally pulling up on Trafalgar Square. 

Even at this hour, the square was crowded with tourists bustling about, people from all over the world. London has always been a diverse city, but now it seemed as though every nationality in the world could be represented on a street corner. It was utterly fascinating, and Raihan almost didn’t hear Piers’ question as he stared out the window, watching it all go by. “Hm?”

“I said, are you going to be able to handle yourself when we go in there? You don’t seem to be the best with...crowds. Or bright lights. Or anything.” An accurate estimation of his frayed temper, but Piers needed not worry. Raihan had a clean body, trimmed hair, manicured nails, and a belly full of food to anchor him. More importantly, he had something calling to his pride, and for a dragon, that would override many degrees of minor panic. 

Giving the broadest smile he could manage, he reached down to push the button that released the ‘safety belt’ wrapped around his torso that Piers had insisted they both wear. Then, he tugged the handle and stepped from the car into the cool night air.

Within a few seconds, he realized that he’d perhaps overestimated his ability to cope with the massive tide of overwhelming stimuli assaulting him from all sides. Horns honked, people talked, called, even shouted. Lights flashed, music throbbed in the distance, and then again, up close. There was an incessant beeping coming from an area where pedestrians crossed the street, a flag snapped, the fountain in the square rushed, and that wasn’t even beginning on all of the scents. Panic rose like a cold tentacle in the back of his throat, and yet left a burning sensation in his legs as he gripped the handle of the car door and willed himself not to crush it. There was no way to know what to focus on first and he felt as though he couldn’t breathe—

And then Piers was at his side, those blue eyes glittering up at him in concern. Deep as sapphires, blue as the winter’s sea. It didn’t erase how overwhelming the world had become, but it gave it all a focal point, and increased the space in Raihan’s chest just enough that he found he could gulp in a breath. One. Two. The whine that had started up in his ears eased, though if Piers was talking again, he had no idea what he was saying. “Let’s go inside,” he managed, though his voice sounded strained even to himself, but Piers miraculously just nodded and turned to walk towards the museum’s entrance. 

Raihan let go of the car’s door with the tentativeness of a child releasing the wall of the pool he is just learning to swim in, but despite the swirling madness of the city around them, he found himself honed in on Piers’ presence. The sway of his mysterious hair was like a beacon, and Raihan followed after it through the crowd, past the bizarre buskers performing feats of levitation he didn’t want to think about, past the crowd of teenaged schoolchildren in matching uniforms scurrying and shouting and joking, up the great stairs and in through the broad glass doors.

Almost immediately after those doors swung shut, the noise of the outside world was muffled significantly and Raihan felt a little of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. There was a strange sort of entryway set up within the small area behind the doors, though before the museum proper started, and he felt almost grateful to have a single thing to be confused about. As he watched, Piers removed the satchel from around his shoulder and handed it to a man wearing a uniform, who boredly unzipped it and looked inside with a small stick that lit brightly at one end, but created no flame. _What, he’s allowed to look through your things, but I’m not?_ And what was it the man held? A wand, perhaps? Had magic become more commonplace among humans in his absence? Then Piers strode through a small, grayish archway, paused for a second, and turned to look at Raihan who was apparently supposed to do the same. Perhaps it was a portal of some kind? Yet Piers was still clearly visible on the other side. A barrier, then? So many questions and mysteries in this new world. 

Stepping cautiously closer, Raihan noticed a small sign near the uniformed guard that asked visitors to please place their belongings into the tray for inspection and then pass through the ‘metal detector’. The instructions were repeated a few times in a variety of languages, but Raihan agreed and emptied his pockets. Aside from the billfold and a small packet of soft papers he’d been given as a courtesy by the concierge that he had yet to understand the purpose of, his pockets were entirely empty. The guard barely glanced at the tray, and Raihan stepped through the thin, flimsy archway and looked around. Nothing had changed. How odd. He had absolutely no idea what metals the arch was meant to be detecting or how, but Piers was watching him with a faint crease between his brows that spelled impatience, so he took his items out of the tray and stuffed them back in their respective pockets. This world felt so strange, so new, that even such a simple process left him utterly bewildered. 

Yet Piers had waited for him on the other side of the archway, brushing his hair out of his face but otherwise seeming unperturbed. It occurred to Raihan, just for a brief moment, that Piers was an astoundingly generous person, even if he was used to others bending to his will. 

“Where are we going now?” he asked, as Piers started off down the hallway, his steps seeming sure even though Raihan cast his eyes all about the building. It was confusing, the way the flesh of the new world rested on the skeleton of the old, the interior of this place so modernized and yet the stones of the exterior had been mottled with age. Piers looked over his shoulder, and flicked his hand in a beckoning gesture. 

“This way, to the second floor. I’m pretty sure they keep the slightly older stuff up there,” Piers said, his voice floating gently through the otherwise quiet air. There were still a few visitors—some tourists, and what looked to be a group of students, given the way they all crowded around a single man wearing a badge who pointed at a particular painting and spoke in an equally low tone. Yet compared to the endless hubbub of the outside world, the museum felt like a peaceful oasis, and he followed after Piers slowly, taking in the portraits that surrounded them, some even of faces he recognized. Famous people in Britain’s history, apparently. He’d never had the chance to visit before.

“You know, this museum was almost brand new the last time I was out in the world,” he finally said, as Piers began to slow and look back and forth at the portraits, clearly searching. He stopped, as though surprised that Raihan had volunteered the information, that tiny furrow reappearing on his forehead. Raihan yearned to smooth it out with his thumb.

“And when was that, exactly?” His eyes flicked side to side, but his steps had slowed as he waited for Raihan’s answer. 

“If this is anno domini 2019, then well over a century ago. It would have been around 1861, or 1862. I don’t recall, precisely. Your brain gets a little scrambled when you’ve been tortured for as long as I have.” The words are dark but his tone is light, and Piers frowns at him a little more, lips sweetly pouting outwards. Ah, gods, but Raihan could watch his face all night.

“...Damn. You’ve missed a lot, then. Like, a lot. World wars. The invention of the internet. Humans went to the moon. Mate, you’ve missed _rock n’ roll.”_ Raihan had no idea what rock n’ roll was, nor why Piers made it sound like that was more important than the world being at war or the revelation that _humans went to the moon,_ but he was suddenly dying to find out more. 

Except, just at that moment, something caught his eye through a doorway, and he strode past Piers to get a better look. There, on the opposite wall, in a gilded gold frame he didn’t recognize, was of his greatest prides and joys. A portrait of himself, all square-shoulders and red wool, a standout contrast of the surrounding sea of dour faces and black jackets with lace ruff collars. The expression in his eyes was merry, twinkling brightly—echoes of the man he used to be. The artist had given him a fashionable redness in the cheeks, made the length of his neck more elegant than before, but hadn’t romanticized him in the way other painters always seemed to. This work had a bright sort of clarity to it, and as Piers’ shoes clicked across the parquet floor to hurry and catch up with him, he calmly extended a fingertip to caress the bumpy surface of the paint. Dry and hard, and the ridges left behind by the brushstroke caught under his finger.

“Wh—what are you doing, you can’t touch—!” Piers started, and then stopped when he saw the subject of the painting for himself. “Raihan, is that you?” He sounded impressed and the dragon within his chest preened at the implied praise. Yes, this was what he’d been looking for himself, though he hadn’t expected to find it so quickly, or perhaps at all. The color of his coat wasn’t the only difference between him and the other faces here. 

Piers was beside him, close enough that Raihan could reach out and touch the fabric of his sleek leather jacket if he chose, trace his fingers over the short metal studs the way he had that painting. “It is me, so I’m pretty sure I can touch it if I want. Though I guess a human wouldn’t believe me if I told them that.” He snorted, and then turned his eyes again to the painting. The Raihan on the canvas wasn’t smiling, but he was barely restraining it. The Raihan now hardly knew how to make that expression, and felt a sudden burst of anger that he was somehow lesser than this representation. 

Cool fingers pressed against his arm, and he started for just a second, holding his breath as Piers leaned across his chest to read the plaque with a short text about the work on the wall. It was such a casual touch it was almost stunning; Piers willingly got this close to him, even when he’d behaved so brutishly before. It made Raihan’s heart do something odd in his chest, and he had to cover it by speaking again. “I’m certain it’s me, you know. My memory isn’t that bad.”

Piers ignored him to read, and then stood up abruptly enough that his hair brushed past Raihan again, a curtain of scent. “You were an Earl? Holy shit. I mean—I knew Drakarys were powerful, but I didn’t think that extended to politics.” His eyes were wide and bright when he looked up once again, and his face seemed painfully innocent with such a youthful expression painted across it.

“I was indeed, little one. Even I couldn’t survive on my stunning good looks and overflowing charm alone.” Piers raised an eyebrow at that, and really, it was surprising how expressive an eyebrow could be on the right face. How quickly his emotions changed and melted in and out across his features; he seemed at first stiff and cold, almost statuesque, but in this moment he moved in breathtaking ways.

Piers realized he was looking a second too long, and turned his eyes back to the plaque once more. “You’re ridiculous...who’s Leon Dande? It says here he’s the one who donated this portrait to the collection.”

That name took Raihan back, as though Piers had simply reached into his mind and opened a door he hadn’t been aware was closed. A brilliant smile, the smell of lemons, an irritable and companionable sort of affection—all the sensations came rushing back to him at once, and he almost felt dizzy with the weight of the memories. “Leon was...like my brother. Christ, I can’t believe I’d forgotten him. I—I don’t even know if he’s still alive, though I can’t imagine a bastard like that dying. He was a royal champion, you know. For the king. A knight with the highest of honors.” The thought of his old friend poured forth like a flood, and he was at once relieved at the sensation of such a broad part of his mind coming back to him, and terrified that such a huge chunk had been missing in the first place.

Piers handled the sudden spillage of information with little more than an understanding nod. “A Drakarys too?”

That one took another moment of recollection, as Raihan remembered Leon surrounded by fire and scales, confident in every gesture. But he also recalled Leon bristling with fur and fang, a primal sort of power that Raihan’s dragon both respected and wished to test.

“No, Leon was a werewolf, straight from the North. Though he often handled dragons so well, one could easily make the mistake that he’d been born to us. He was...gods, he was good at damn near everything he did. Better than I was, for certain. He could toss me on my arse in the training ring any day, did as well in his studies as any scholar, and had women throwing themselves at him from the time he was sixteen.” A laugh rose to his lips at the images in his mind. “If there was a challenge, Leon rose to it. I always felt like I was the one tagging along after him, but I never let him get too full of himself. I challenged him to more duels than I can count, just to see that determined look in his eye. And to make it a close enough thing that he never forgot to keep on his toes.” Leon the prince, Leon the champion. Raihan had been a man of no small means, but the picture of Leon in his memory was akin to a giant, and he allowed himself to recall as freely as he could.

“He sounds pretty incredible. If he is alive, I bet my uncle Kabu knows where he is. Kabu seems to know everybody in the Mythos, especially any kind of nobility.” Piers spoke tentatively, but he seemed sure of what he said, and Raihan’s heart rose at the possibility of finding his friend again. 

Then the obvious struck him. “You have an uncle?”

“Not by blood. He’s related to the woman who raised me, though. I guess you could say he was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father-figure.”

Raihan could only shake his head, feeling as though his world were continuously being turned on its head by Piers’ mere existence. “Every time I think I’ve made some sense of you, I learn something new and it confuses me all over again.”

At that, Piers crossed his slender arms over his chest, and did that thing with his eyebrow once again. The effect was no less stunning the second time around. “Yeah, no kidding, _Earl.”_

“Come on, we’re still looking for that portrait, right? You said it would be in this section.” Chuckling, Raihan cast a last glance at his own portrait, and began to move around Piers. A turn of conversation, for sure, but he felt tired by the unexpected rush of information to his brain, and strangely wanted to focus on other things.

Piers trotted after him into the hall, still scowling. “What, you want to help all of a sudden?”

“If you help me find Leon, and retrieve my memories, I’ll help you find out what we can about your parents. Consider it a fair trade, for...looking after me.” It was the best he could offer in the moment, and he was indeed feeling grateful after seeing that painting again. Besides, he still had so much to learn about Piers. Especially if he was ever to even hope to entertain the idea of being mated to him. 

The gaze Piers struck him with was a steely one, and Raihan found himself believing that Piers was an older brother more with every passing moment. He’d seen similar looks on Leon’s face when the man was talking to his own younger sibling--a brother. Raihan remembered Leon’s younger brother. “Okay, but no more flipping out and destroying the hotel room. I’m putting a total moratorium on destruction,” Piers said, drawing Raihan back into the present. 

“You have my word,” Raihan swore easily. “No further destruction of the hotel room, or your personal belongings. No word yet on what I may do to those who threaten you.” His smirk was teasing, and Piers actually rolled his eyes before following him further down the hall. 

Some of the faces on the wall he recognized, and others he had never seen before. Gazing across them, Raihan allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if he and Piers were simply on a courtship outing, with nothing else between them. Would he be able to smile, the way he was about to in his portrait? Would they be laughing now?

What would it look like when Piers laughed?

Somehow, he imagined the sound to be bright and clear, and it sent an odd twinge he’d never quite experienced before shooting through his stomach. To distract himself, he looked back at the endless faces hanging on the walls, which betrayed nothing in return. “What sort of portrait are we looking for, anyhow? I mean, I assume your parents look something like you, but...any other clues, beyond that?”

There was a pause, and when he glanced across the narrow hall, Piers was frowning. Lost in his own memories. “I remember that my mother had black hair. My father...I don’t know. I think he had blue eyes, like mine. Maybe. The last I ever saw of him was his back as he walked out the door.” The words had a ring of finality to them, but surprisingly, no note of anger. If it were Raihan, he would have been enraged if his father had dared to abandon him and his mother, but Piers seemed cool and serene as he floated down the gallery hall. “I think I’ll know it when I see it. I want to think I could remember my mother’s face.”

At that, Raihan nodded and went back to his own searching. They crossed another room quickly, with only a pause for Piers to gasp slightly at the portrait of William Shakespeare, and for Raihan to remark that it wasn’t a particularly accurate likeness. The real Shakespeare had much stronger features, and far less hair. 

The portrait was positioned in one of the final rooms in the gallery, by itself on a false wall that stood just in front of the exit. If Piers knew it when he saw it, Raihan did as well; the family resemblance was undeniable. 

She stood proudly beside an ornate wooden desk, stacked high with leather-bound books and a quill and parchment unfurled across the surface. An unusual foreground for a woman’s portrait, but hardly the most striking thing. Piers’ mother was as eye-catching as he was and Raihan felt his heart jump to his throat as her eyes pinned him in place across the centuries and layers of oil paint. It was as though she was reaching out across all of that distance and standing there before him, her skin pearlescent and hair hanging in wild, dark riots that spilled from her shoulders the way her son’s did. There was something otherworldly about her, the hair that was a touch too dark and the eyes a hint too bright, as though the painter had unknowingly been more heavy-handed with his brush than intended and accidentally infringed upon reality. Not that a human eye would ever know it. Yet the moue of her lips seemed to part around a word half-spoken, and the fabric of her dress was ready to heave a breath. Raihan followed the curve of her shoulder along the length of her arm to where her fingers rested against the carefully rendered wood grain of the desk. An inch away, the edge of the paper bore a strange mark that he could swear he recognized, like an insignia of a guild that he had only just forgotten. 

He opened his mouth to comment on it, and saw that Piers stood silent and still, alive only in the rolling of more bloody pink tears down his cheeks. The sight had disgusted him before, but now, Raihan only took it for the grief it represented, and closed his mouth. Piers had lost his mother and he’d clearly been young when it happened, and even Raihan was not about to interrupt this moment of reunion. 

After another minute, Piers wiped at his face with the back of his hand and shook himself, approaching the painting for a closer look. Raihan leaned across to get a glance at the plaque on the wall as well, wondering if it perhaps contained a clue to that symbol. _Portrait of Morgan Lafée, Duchess of Northumberland [Morgan Le Fey at Her Desk]_ said the script, and now it was Raihan’s turn to have his jaw drop.

“She wasn’t seriously--”

“I believe she was.”

That had always seemed a myth among myths, a legend even for creatures such as themselves. To learn that Morgan Le Fey, Queen of the Fairies, had even potentially been real--for a long moment, he had no idea what to say to it. That she had been Piers’ mother was boggling, and Raihan gaped for lack of anything better to do. Yet Piers seemed to have already shaken himself and pulled out his cellphone, holding it up in front of the portrait. On the front of the device, a smaller image of the same portrait appeared, and blinked once. Then a certain detail seemed to grow larger, as though placed under a microscope, and the device blinked again. As Raihan watched, Piers moved the cellphone around in front of the portrait’s surface, repeating this several times, and then pocketed it again. 

Gathering himself, Raihan finally asked the question at the forefront of his mind. “If your mother is really Morgan Le Fey, does that mean--is it all real? Avalon? King Arthur?”

Piers nodded, though the furrow had returned to his brow. “Yes. At least, I think it was based on a truth.”

“Then how did you not know who she was? How did those who raised you never mention it--this Kabu fellow, why didn’t he tell you?” It seemed an awfully large detail to leave out, and from what Piers had told him, he started on this venture with next to no information. 

When he finally turned away from the portrait, it was with a faint sigh. “You have to understand that the Fey are a complicated people. Like, more than any shifter could ever come close to being. They’re not _from_ this world, and they operate by their own rules. Even as Mythics, they’re unique unto themselves.” Raihan didn’t miss the way Piers distanced himself from this group, though the fact that his mother was clearly a Fey, and an important one at that, meant he was at least half their blood. Another fact that sent Raihan reeling, but Piers spoke again before he could even consider it. “Strong emotions, especially grief, can have a powerful impact on Feykind. They’re the only species amongst the Mythics who can actually die of a broken heart.”

Now the pointed ears made sense, at least. A thousand questions swirled in Raihan’s head, which was becoming a common occurrence, but still didn’t fail to give him a headache. He wanted something to be simple; casting about for words, he came to another question. “So you’d no idea who she was? Never been to this Avalon, if it’s indeed real?”

Piers shook his head. “Avalon is mostly defunct, but for a few loyal human druids. Feykind has other gates between their world and this one, and the power of Avalon has waned over the years with the failure of humans’ belief. And I’m too young, besides. You have to be over a century old at the very least to even be considered to participate in the ceremonies that take place there. I’m only seventy, after all.”

Seventy. Piers was seventy. By human standards he’d be an old man by now, but for a Mythic...gods, _seventy._ It was practically cradle-robbing. Raihan felt the intense need to smash and burn rising within himself again, but without a proper outlet. They were still standing in the quiet gallery, surrounded by priceless works of art, all alone. Raihan knew with a sickening lurch that he’d slash his claws through all of them and destroy their value without flinching before he’d ever hurt Piers. But _seventy._ Damn him again to eternal torment. Everything inside him clenched, trying to suppress the sensations that raged inside him, and the bone-deep assurance that as sick as all of this was, his lusting for a seventy year old vampire with luscious lips and soft hair was not about to end. And a Fey--or a vampire? Both? Neither? How was this even possible? 

The one blessing of the vampires’ barbaric species propagation was that Mythics were largely immune, and only humans could be turned. Yet here Piers was. If he’d been born a vampire...Raihan hadn’t known that vampires could even be fertile. He’d never heard of such a thing, not even as a campfire tale, nor a whisper in the dark. Vampires were barren in the traditional sense, male and female alike, and few of them had an interest in sex beyond an extension of the depravity that surrounded their feeding habits. If vampires could continue themselves by more than one method, that put the entire world at risk. The very balance of the Mythos could be at stake, and Piers was living proof. 

“Rai...han?” Piers’ voice was hardly a squeak, and yet the sound of it rode a knife’s edge of fear. Raihan shook himself, worried again that he’d lost control, but he was not hurting Piers. Not even close to touching him. What was—

Something liquid dripped onto the floor beside him, and he realized that in his shock, he’d sunk his claws into his own hand and was bleeding in a steady trickle of crimson onto the parquet flooring of the gallery.

He looked at Piers and saw the nightmare of fangs slide out from under his perfect dreamy lips, and his eyes flashed with a terrible hunger he was all too familiar with. Before he could even brace himself, though, Piers did the one thing no other vampire in his entire centuries-long experience of them had ever done when presented with fresh blood.

He turned and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy! Please excuse me while I begin to butcher and bastardize both history and mythology alike to suit my own purposes. This is really only the start of what is going to be quite the hodgepodge.
> 
> Poor Piers, he’s about to starve to death.


	5. Chapter 5

Piers hardly saw any part of the museum as he ran, bursting at once from the lighted marble hallways into the chill dark of the autumn night. All around him, the familiar streets of London twisted with shadow into strange, unknown things, and he found himself a strange and unknown thing as well. There was no direction to his flight, only one foot falling in front of the other, each turn away from a pulsing heart leading him directly into the path of another. Damn London for being so full, and damn humans for milling about like sheep, unaware of the wolf in their presence.

A wolf who loathed his own fangs, his howl, his very nature. 

The hunger within him built with every passing second; he’d read numerous accounts of how humans felt the need for food and drink, the way their hunger curled and boiled in their gut like a sickness, or clawed at their insides like a living thing. Yet he knew, even without ever having experienced the feeling for himself, that their hunger and his were entirely different beasts. Rather than a mere ache in his stomach, or a hollowness inside his gut, he felt it like an unslakable burn that began at the back of his throat and stretched up to behind his eyes, leaving them grainy and itchy as though plagued by grit. Then it slid down the length of his throat and into every bone of his hands, forming the fingertips into claws, lanced down his legs with every step until he felt that he wasn’t just hungry, he was _hunger itself._

And Raihan had been so, so close. 

The memory of the look in those turquoise eyes, the horror and revulsion that had mixed together at the sight of his wanting pained Piers more than even starvation. Yet how could he have expected differently? The Fey had sympathized with his hunger, but as they ate little and certainly not of flesh, they could not understand. They looked upon him instead with a muted breed of pity, as one might look on an unfortunately ill relative whose disease caused embarrassing bodily functions that had to be endured when there was nothing else to be done. He and Marnie had learned to do their drinking in the privacy of their own rooms, or when they had a family dinner, demurely sipping from wine glasses and pretending they had Merlot and not O Negative staining their lips. 

There was almost a strange acceptance in Raihan’s disgust, in that it contained acknowledgement of what he was, how he fed. But of course, it wasn’t as though it was something he could help; he had been born this way, and had lived this cursed half-life for decades. And now, as he splashed through a puddle of oily water and rounded a corner in a hurry, passing by the gut-wrenching smell of an Indian restaurant, he realized this would be his life forever. 

The thought brought a desolation to him, or rather, dredged up that which he had always ignored for fear of it swallowing him. Madness seemed to lap at his heels one way or another, either from denying the creature that he was or giving in to it, and he would have wept if he had any blood left for his tears. 

Suddenly, his mother’s face flashed behind his eyelids and he stopped in his tracks at the unbidden image. She had been beautiful, and kind, and dead. When he had first seen her, he had been overwhelmed by the intelligence in her eyes, the glory of her face, the sweetness that he knew from faded memory was no artifice of painting but her true gentle nature. He’d cried, not from sadness, but from relief at seeing her again, even in a painting. 

Yet now, reaching the end of the alleyway and resting his hand on the rough brick to double over from the pain in his stomach, he felt anger welling anew within him. Rage burned blue and white in his veins, hot as phosphorous-fire, overtaking him and turning his grip to claws. She’d left him, and he couldn’t understand it. She had lain with a vampire--a _vampire!_ \---and borne him into this accursed life, and then she had died of causes he couldn’t remember and left him alone with his baby sister in his arms and no place in all the world. He wanted to vomit, but retching only brought up thin strands of saliva, nothing but bitterness in his gut. Vampires didn’t even have bile to cough up. 

If he had been born a Fey, he would be a knight by now, or perhaps a scholar. He would be welcome on their sacred isles, would loathe the touch of iron as they did, would sing and dance with the lightness of eternity and would feel the shining of the sun upon his face. Yet she had denied him even that warmth with the selfishness of her love. 

Then, like a candle flame being snuffed, the heat of anger went out of him, and all that was left behind was the cold damp of sorrow. He’d come all this way, hunted so far, and all he’d found of himself was more misery. It had been his hope that he would perhaps find answers and closure or at least an explanation, but this first simple clue to his heritage left him with nothing but more questions, more pain. Sinking down against the wall, he stared down at his pale hands, and then pulled a lock of his two-toned hair across his shoulder. Around him, the city teemed with life, cars roaring past and people chattering, their lives spinning on and on with no notice of him. He didn’t know what or who he was, and he found it comforting in a bizarre way that those around him cared not at all about his crisis of identity. 

Footsteps sounded down the far end of the alley, and he tensed, knowing their noise already. Raihan had come, and he buried his face in his hands, waiting for--what? Chastisement? Violence? Punishment? He didn’t know, and couldn’t bring himself to face the Drakarys and his powerful glare. 

The footsteps halted nearby, but no words or blows came. He could hear the low pulse of Raihan’s heart in his chest, steady as a drum. Perhaps a little faster than usual, a mark of his hurry. The scent of blood was gone, but even that echoing beat carved at the emptiness inside him until he felt less like a man and more like a husk, craving to fill himself. Breath sawed in and out of Raihan’s chest, and he forced his fangs back into his gums once more. 

“I would ask if you are well, but I know that you are not,” he finally said, and the softness in his tone had Piers’ head jerking up. He sounded almost...caring, and the sentiment was so unusual it put an instant furrow between his brows.

Raihan’s face looked younger, almost like it had in his portrait. It was as though the former man was breaking through--or rather, that the two images were drawing closer together, to the point of overlapping. He could see the foundations of the old even amid the shadows of the new, and it startled him into speaking. “Why do you care?”

Raihan’s mouth opened, revealing his deadly teeth, and then closed. After a moment, he responded. “Truthfully, I do not know. But I do. For now, isn’t that enough?”

It was. To his surprise, Raihan didn’t ask to leave where they were, or return to the car. He didn’t lay a hand on Piers, but there was no disgust in the lack of touch. It was more like he was waiting patiently for Piers to gather himself, and that too was a strange turn. “I wish I could understand you,” he said, and had no idea if he was talking about Raihan or himself.

“I wish the same,” Raihan echoed, and Piers believed him. 

They sat there for some time, Piers listening to the sounds of Raihan’s body as it lived, and the city as it flowed, until he felt something akin to calmness coming over him. Or perhaps just exhaustion; but not the kind of tiredness that sleep would fix. This was a deeper, to-the-bone weariness, and yet it was a welcome change from every other powerful emotion that had caught him in its undertow tonight. Neither of them had anything to say, and in that space of silence, it felt as though something entirely different were being conveyed.

Then the quiet was broken by the chiming of Piers’ cellphone, a noise that had Raihan almost jumping out of his skin in shock. He growled at the device as Piers drew it out, clearly irritated at having been frightened by such a small thing, but Piers didn’t chuckle at him. Instead he checked the screen, and saw the incoming messages were from Marnie.

“My sister is messaging me,” he said by way of explanation, and Raihan settled back onto his heels, watching the device in Piers’ hand with a confused sort of wariness. It was unthinkable, how this world must seem utterly alien to him, and Piers was struck for a moment by how powerfully lonely that must be. 

The phone chimed again, and he swiped to open the messenger app. Raihan huffed, but still said nothing in the background. 

_Hey you_

_Long time no text xx_

_This essay is threatening my immortality but I’m not going to let Magnolia beat me on this. I know my research is solid, dammit. Just because I’m not doing it her way doesn’t mean I’m wrong._

_How’s it going with you? Did you find anything?_

Piers knew that this journey had always been _his_ thing, and Marnie’s interest was more based in her support of him than in any desire to find answers for herself. She’d simply been too young when their parents had passed, and never felt the sting of their loss in the same way Piers had. For all her intents and purposes, Melony was basically her mother, and Piers had raised her as best an older brother could. The painting of their real mother would be nothing more than that to her; an image of a woman from whom she had inherited her soft chin and dark hair, and little else. A ghost with familial resemblance.

He had no idea if that thought saddened or relieved him. 

Marnie, at least, would never be crumpled in an alley like this, doubting everything about herself. Digging the heel of one icy palm into his eye socket for a moment, Piers grunted and then began to type out his reply to her.

_Yeah, I found mom’s portrait._

_IMG_271_

_That’s her. It’s in the National Portrait Gallery._

Even in the diminutive thumbnail, her face was intense and lovely, and he clicked the phone locked and slid it back into his pocket before he could think about it any further. For some reason, he just didn’t have the emotional strength to look at her right now, and swallowed back the lump in his throat that she brought up. 

When he looked up again, Raihan was there, and Piers wondered again if he should have told Marnie about him. Or Melony. Or anyone. It would be the sensible thing to do; informing your family of when you were out with strangers was something even humans knew to take care of. But as dangerous as Raihan was, as confused as Piers felt about him, there was something that held him back from sharing with his family that was starting to go beyond a mere desire to test his own mettle and have an adventure to call his own. He wanted to...he didn’t know. All he could guarantee was that he wasn’t ready to have an interruption come between them. It seemed more than mere coincidence that immediately after Raihan had appeared, he’d had his biggest discovery on this trip yet. Not that Piers overly believed in fate; gods and goddesses were one thing, and their true nature was up for debate all across the Mythos and had been for thousands of years, but the idea of some invisible guiding force dictating his life as it unfolded seemed ludicrous, even to a half-vampire, half-banshee. Life was just too random for that sort of logic, and the world far too chaotic. The truth, he had found, was indeed often stranger than fiction. 

But there was no denying that Raihan had impacted everything, and had thrown his entire journey into a whirlwind with his appearance. In his pocket, his phone chimed again, but he ignored it this time. He didn’t particularly want to read Marnie’s kind but ultimately blasé response at the moment.

Standing, he brushed off his jeans and extended his hand to Raihan, realizing a beat too late that he was casually offering him help, as though they were friends. Raihan glanced from the hand to Piers’ face, a soft surprise resting on his features, but he accepted the hand without question and Piers tugged him to his feet. Raihan was still hulking, and he knew for certain there had been no need to help him up, but the gesture felt utterly natural. 

“We should go back to the hotel. You’ve found what you were looking for, I take it?” Guess they weren’t going to talk about the blood, then. Or his fleeing from it. Piers almost wanted to bring it up, to ask why Raihan was making no mention of it so it couldn’t hang in the air between them, but bit his tongue at the last second. He was too tired for an argument, even if he was no longer sure they’d be having one if he brought it up. He didn’t feel sure of anything anymore, and that unsteadiness alone was draining.

“Yeah, I did. At least, I got some good pictures of that painting, and hopefully that will lead to another clue.” Much of history unfolds in this way, and historians are those willing to comb over the tiniest details for endless hours, trying to resurrect the meanings of old symbols and forgotten figures. He was trained for this quest, at the very least. He was playing to his strengths, just as Melony had always insisted he do. 

As they walked back to the car, a misting rain began to fall, because October nights in London were synonymous with rain. The stoplights glowed with faint haloes and the world seemed blurred, like Vaseline on a camera lens, as though everything had softened at the edges and the colors were bleeding outside the lines. Raihan’s face turned to gaze out the window and in the amber light of the streets, he seemed unreal in the loveliest sense.

Piers had always been fascinated by it, the sensation he had at certain times that life was indeed imitating art. Or perhaps that boundaries like that had always been fluid things, made-up distinctions which had been invented by humans and Mythos alike to attempt to encapsulate the indescribable. The moments like these, with golden light pouring over the face of a handsome man who made no sense, who had come from nowhere and wanted everything. It seemed to him like a snapshot, or a movie scene, the way his own hands stretched across the surface of the steering wheel and the cars rushed past them with a mute roar, Raihan’s long legs bent beneath the dashboard as his clever eyes darted this way and that. Piers usually found these moments in empty places, the bathrooms of grunge clubs and the side of Tube stations late at night; as though he’d suddenly stepped into someone else’s skin, or woken up from a shockingly realistic dream, and wasn’t quite sure he wasn’t still asleep. Raihan looked unreal like that, and he found himself talking without even expecting it. Where he’d been annoyed with his questions before, now it felt like none of that mattered under the skies of London, gone hazy with a million shining lights.

“I didn’t really know her,” he was saying, even though his lips were numb and he pulled into the next lane to make a turn. “She died when I was young. Just after having Marnie. But I remember things about her, you know? She was still my mother; I’ll never forget the way her hair smelled, or the shape of her smile. I don’t want to forget that, because it feels like it’s important, and no one else...no, that’s not fair. They do care. Kabu and Melony care, in a way that I’ll never understand either, because they’re Fey and Fey deal with things in terms of millennia. Not years or decades or even centuries--it’ll be a thousand years before they can accept her death, really come to terms with it. That’s just how Fey _are._ I can’t pretend that I understand what that’s like for them, to lose someone who is such a huge part of your entire existence. But she was my mother. I can’t help but think...I can’t help but wonder who I would be if she was still here.” He sighed, shoulders heaving, the windshield streaked with rain until he flicked on the wipers and cleared away the thousand refracting domes. Light on light. 

“Or my dad, I guess. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he hadn’t left, or if he’d taken me with him. He was a vampire, but that’s about all anyone seems to know about him. No one knows how he got together with my mom--no one knows why their relationship happened. Why she died. Where he went. It’s just endless fucking questions that nobody but me cares about answering. Maybe it’s not even dramatic, maybe he just did what vampires _do_ and killed her and I was just too young to remember it. Maybe he was just a monster and a deadbeat and all I’m looking for is...a shadow. But I have to know, you know? I just...have to figure it the fuck out. Why I am what I am.”

He had never said all that out loud before, to another person. For whatever reason, he simply couldn’t voice it to his family, and besides, they had never asked him. It had just been unspoken that he needed this, and he wasn’t sure that he’d even described these thoughts so succinctly to himself. Yet Raihan looked across at him with wide eyes that resonated a unique understanding, a brightness in them that wavered between the sun on summer waves, and the hardness of glass, piercing and sharp. He knew that Raihan couldn’t truly place himself in his shoes--that no one could, according to every scattered history of the Mythos he’d ever found--but as the lulling pause stretched between them, he felt that Raihan was making the attempt. That alone was more than most, and Piers found himself staggered by his gratitude for it. 

“Every time you speak, it turns the world on its head,” Raihan said, and the bravest part of Piers whispered _you should hear me sing._ Oh, if only he could let that voice out. “But I think that if these are questions that only you care to have answered, then that is enough. They are your parents, and your memories. You are entitled to them.” Another light spilled across his face, a brilliant splash of crimson against the car’s dark interior. It made him look severe, the lines of his cheekbones cut high and powerful, the fringe of his lashes thick and dark. Like he meant every word he said. 

“There are many outcomes, but I believe that only knowing the truth will give you what you are seeking. Monster, perhaps, or maybe just a man. I don’t know the answer to that, as much as my experience tells me otherwise. That is what I mean when I say you undo my knowledge of the world; you are contrary to everything I’ve ever known about vampire-kind, and the change is…” He let out a breath, rubbing his palms against the fabric of his jeans. “I don’t know what to make of it, but that seems to be the theme of these days. However, I do know what it is to be separated from your own memories, to not know what to make of your thoughts and to cling to the scraps you feel are most important. I too am trying to piece together many parts of my identity which as they are make no sense. I have already promised to help you, and I will continue to do that as best I can, in exchange for your guidance through this new world.”

It was more than Piers expected from him, the man who seemed to loathe what he was fundamentally. A part of him wondered if the revelation that he was half-Fey had changed Raihan’s opinion of him, but he dismissed that almost immediately. He was still a vampire, and his little display at the museum made sure that neither of them were forgetting that any time soon. If Raihan wanted to help him, then that desire was not born of any friendship between their species. Something else, though, that he didn’t quite want to put a name to for fear of what it implied. 

“Thank you,” he said, for lack of more suitable words. It felt like not enough, and at the same time, perfectly shaped for the space between them. 

They returned to the haloed lights of the hotel, and Piers parked in front, gesturing for Raihan to get out first. He exited the car in a single steady motion, his size giving him no awkwardness even with the relatively cramped nature of the seats. That he adjusted so well to modern life seemed nothing short of a miracle; if Piers had been the one in this same situation, he would no doubt be cowering in an alleyway somewhere, covered in filth and shrieking in horror at every new thing he saw. Yes, Raihan had his moments, and Piers had not missed the petrifying fear that had overtaken him the moment he stepped out of the car at Trafalgar Square. Yet rather than losing his control, he’d gathered himself regally and followed Piers inside without question. It could only be called impressive. 

A valet took the car keys from Piers and drove off, leaving the two of them standing in front of the hotel doors. The night was deep now, but bright as nighttime cities always are, a blanket of light covering the sky and chasing away the true dark. At other times, he loathed the lack of peace on his sensitive eyes, but remembering what they had felt earlier tonight made him glad of the lack of appropriate shadows to hide in. Raihan, seeming to catch his hesitation, scanned the street, but nothing out of the ordinary manifested. Just a few pedestrians, strolling calmly along the sidewalk, and the occasional car speeding past with a gust. 

Now when they crossed the threshold and into the lobby, Piers kept his head raised. There were fewer humans up at this hour but the concierge greeted them with a simpering friendliness, and Piers awkwardly darted his gaze away. Another reason he hated to be ostentatious was that it felt like flaunting his wealth, and that always made people act bizarre. It was the worst thing in the world to feel that one was only being listened to, cared about, because of the size of one’s wallet. Money had many advantages, but Piers had always felt awkward about using it. Almost as bad as using his Mythos-given beauty to his own advantage, though that was far less something he could help. The simple fact of the matter was that he was a contradiction, a rockstar who feared the spotlight, hating the attention others gave him while also craving that they look at him and hear his words. 

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he pressed the button to summon the lift, and felt Raihan come to stand just behind him. Not oppressively close, but...enough to be undeniable. The sound of his heart, the heat of his breath and body, Piers could feel them all and he tried to set them from his mind to no avail, staring at the yellow glow of the lift-call button and willing all his focus feebly onto it. Casting about in his mind, he frantically searched for anything else to guide his thoughts away from Raihan, from the scent of what must be a cologne he applied earlier, and all the confusing feelings that arose at his closeness. 

Blessedly, a rational thought actually sprung to mind when he needed it. “You said you wanted me to help you find your memories, right?” If his voice sounded high and reedy, that was his own business. “I can actually...I may be able to help out with that, in more ways than you’d think. I’m already a historian, it’s what I went to uni for. Looking up historical records, finding people from decades or centuries ago, checking on facts--that’s all right up my alley. Why don’t we go back to the room, and you start tellin’ me as much as you can remember?” He’s glad that his voice dropped back into a more jaunty, natural tone after the heady topics of conversation they’d just breached. 

The lift doors dinged open, and Raihan didn’t flinch this time when he stepped inside. He even pressed the correct button for their floor. “That sounds perfect, little one. I did not know you attended university, though it impresses me greatly. It’s right that you should have an education.” Piers wanted to gape at that statement, until he remembered that Raihan was a nineteenth-century man. Back then, educations such as his had been far more uncommon, and while Raihan had likely been surrounded by those of sufficiently elevated status as to have attended university, it certainly wasn’t something he would expect most adults to have accomplished. 

Once they were back in the room, he plopped down on the end of the bed, and fished around in his suitcase until he could draw out his laptop. When he opened it, Raihan boggled at the sight, and Piers realized that he had no idea how to explain the concept of a computer to someone who was still gaining a handle on automobiles and the many wonders of electricity. “It’s...it would take a long time to tell you what this is, so suffice to say it’s an oracle of sorts. Y’ can access both information and entertainment with it, yeah?”

Circling around to peer at the screen, Raihan nodded mutely and Piers took that as encouragement to continue what he was doing. “I’m going to open a program that allows me to take notes, and I’ll write down everything you tell me. Then we can try and piece it together from there.” The bed sagged as Raihan’s weight was added, and Piers felt him appear by his shoulder once again. It wasn’t an uncomfortable presence, merely one that he had a painful awareness of. As though Raihan put out a static charge, fizzling in the air, and all of Piers’ skin tingled with the sensation. 

But now he had a goal, a target, and he could let his research-oriented mind take over. History had always been Piers’ favorite subject in all his years of schooling, though of course eternity allowed for quite a long time to study whatever one pleased. He had always adored musical theory and courses that allowed him to get in practice time, but of the ‘core studies’, history had always been the one which came quickest to his mind, and in which he achieved the highest marks with ease. Other courses had their merits, but history...history was the one that stood out, because it was the one that laid the closest to his own heart. People assumed that it was nothing more than the rote memorization of an endless list of dates, names, and events, a tableau of the dead confined to musty books and droning lectures. But for Piers, it was a story, the greatest story of all time, endlessly unfurling and unfolding the passions of human--and Mythical--nature. What was history, but a record of achievements, of loves and battles and tragedies and triumphs? The romance to end all romances, because it encompassed every love and loss that had occurred. Surely, it accounted for boring things, like dry trade deals and the passing of seemingly inconsequential laws that stacked on top of one another endlessly. Yet like a tiny channel dug at the mouth of a river which affects its entire course, even the seemingly dull and mundane events often had the greatest effects, and one decision or signature or offhanded sentence could swirl into a myriad of outcomes. The smallest details made for the largest stories. 

Humans and Mythics alike loved, and warred, and lived, and died, and all of it fell into history in one way or another. When he sang, Piers sang for the love of a people--he gave voice to anger at injustice, or the longing of the lovers, or the lamentation of sorrow and the celebration of joy. Such simple, powerful emotions. What was history, but that which was left behind by people who felt much the same way as he? The summary of these passions, these moments that were so great they shaped lives? History is that which remains, when all the participants have gone, and the era is passed. It is the tale that informs the present, inspires the living, and reveres the dead. Mortal and Mythic lives alike are built on these eternal pillars. 

Once, when he was young, he asked Melony if she thought he would ever fall in love. If he would ever find that person, that singular individual, meant just for him. Someone who would change his heart and hit him like a tidal wave, who would inspire him to tear up mountains at their foundation and plunge cliffs to the sea. Who would, at the same time, give him contentment with the everyday, and make even the most quotidien motions romantic, shining extra light on the joys of the small things. She had laughed, stroked a piece of his hair back behind his ear, and told him _Piers, my child, you are in love with being in love._

To this day, his affair with romance itself continued. Finding a man like Leon Dande, cracking open another mystery, a story of which he wasn’t aware of? It would be a delight, and he gave an encouraging glance across his shoulder as he waited for Raihan to begin.

\----

It was the look Piers cast at him in that moment which made Raihan believe for the first time that even without the binding of his instinct, there could be something between them. The glitter in the depths of those pale blue eyes was not that of lust, nor hunger, nor wantings of the flesh; Piers looked at him with the yearning of a mind whose doors seek to open, and it was that which spurred Raihan to try at his recollection. 

The past century had been dedicated to pain and suffering, but he knew he’d had a life before it. He could feel it, pulsing stronger in the back of his mind with each passing moment, and even a hundred years of unending agony could not hold back the previous centuries he’d spent out in the world. He knew these memories seethed within him, and he knew that if he reached, his dragon’s soul would swim through the layers of pain to restore that knowledge to him. It was only a matter of focus.

Closing his eyes, he tried to cast his thoughts back. For so long, the dripping of poison into his body had clouded his mind, making even the most basic concentration impossible, and it felt now like trying to plunge his hands into a swirling morass of incomprehensible fragments to pull out a single thread of sense. The memory of his torture tried to roar to the front of his consciousness, but this time, rather than snarling and shoving it back, he took a deep breath in through his nose and gave that suffering his submission. 

_Turn your palms up, and be empty. Release it._

He did not know whose voice spoke in his head, but he obeyed, and the memories of year after year of being chained there in the darkness finally spilled past. He was not free of them, but they had released their hold for the time being. 

_What is the earliest thing you can remember? Go back. As far back as possible._

The first thing that came to him was the taste of dates, sweet and palpable across his teeth. He remembered their texture, dried and hard on the outside, but bursting to softness when bitten down on, sweeter even than honey. No sooner did that taste recall itself on his tongue than a shudder passed down his spine, and he felt the stretch of sensation travelling from his mouth to his throat, his nose, his eyes, ears, and skin. It exploded across every sense, yet was utterly simplistic; it called to a magical part of himself he’d long since hidden away to survive the brutalities of his life. What is it to remember? How should he define the space of what has been lost, that he might recover it for himself? Or if not recover, then create and restore, as an architect recreates a felled temple, or a potter spins anew the shards of a broken pot dug from the ground and ages long past, pasting the old and the new together so only the thinnest of seams shows?

_Come now, Rahil. You know how to define an unknown variable. I have given you more than enough formulas to try and find the precise angle of a corner, or the circumference of a circle. It’s basic geometry; a child could do it._

And suddenly the memory returned. The taste of dates on his tongue, the heat of the sun, the dust that rolled past on the streets as he walked to his lessons and popped them out from a bag he carried into his mouth. The day was hot, but he was in good spirits as he walked, and cast an equanimously appreciative gaze over the buildings that grew tall around him after having sprung up in a few short years, and the mules that were led down the same street by men whose sandals were covered in the same dust as his own, to be washed away later before prayer. There was nothing special about the dates which had led him to this memory; he’d eaten a thousand, maybe a million in his lifetime, yet they brought him in this singular instance back to this one street, and the voice of a man who was long since deceased. Yet even though this man had died, and was now likely nothing more than motes of dust himself, broken and fragmented to the nigh-molecular level, that which persisted was Raihan’s memory of him. Raihan, Rahil, for they were some of the many names which he had hearkened to in his long, long life. The exquisite sensory memory of those dates had etched itself into his mind not forcefully, but with the inexorable power of steady repetition which leads canyons to be carved from single rivers and the longest roads to be delineated by the passage of wheel after wheel, grinding and turning until their mark is indelible. 

Immediately he was there again, on that street in the relatively young and yet impossibly old capital of Baghdad, and there were all the people, the merchants and vendors who populated certain streets and the washing of clothes being done and the mosques who lifted their crescents high enough to scrape the belly of the sky. There again was the young man’s delight at his own youth, and his excitement at the potential for learning. He was going to school, and no mere school but the Bayt al-Hikmah, the House of Wisdom. 

He had asked his mother once why dragons must learn of mortal affairs, and as he was only a boy at the time, she had gathered him up into her lap and stroked her hand along the side of his face. “It is true that you and I will live for more lifetimes than any human can comprehend, but humans, for all their flaws, are wonderfully intelligent creatures. Whereas dragons are content to find a way that works and follow it endlessly, a human is a creature who asks what and why and how it can be improved. There is more treasure in this world than gold and jewels, and you will come to know the value of knowledge.” He had allowed his legs to dangle from his lap, and had resolved to himself with a child’s determination that if knowledge was as valuable as gold, he would have as much of it as possible. “You will be named as they are named, and you will learn Arabic, which the rulers of this land speak. And Farsi, and Greek, for you are our child, a dragon child, and it is right that you should speak the greatest languages. You will pray at their mosques, and you will dress as they dress, and learn what they learn. This is how it is to survive in the world of humankind.”

So he had endured lesson after lesson in writing, translation, and calligraphy, and then when he had become a man, he had learned of human philosophies and theologies, read their poetry, heard their songs. When they gazed at the stars, he raised his chin too, and when his mother sent him from his home in Egypt to Baghdad and the Bayt al-Hikmah, he had gone with a dragon’s love of hoarding treasure in his heart. The man whose words resounded in his head was al-Khwarizmi, the greatest human mathematician of his century, and one of the greatest of all history. Raihan could remember his stacks of books, the way he could look at a map and through careful calculation, devise a way to measure the latitude and longitude of cities, the way the earth and the stars were to him a world which could be defined with numerical value. Indeed, what had for centuries been to the Mythics nothing more than an accepted fact of their existence was to him a mystery he sought to unravel by calculation, and al-Khwarizmi had succeeded. Raihan had read his books, and more than that, he had committed to memory much of the information that was later lost and regained. At the Bayt al-Hikmah there were thousands upon thousands of books, and Raihan had lovingly read each, and had seen the scholars paid the weight of the text in gold for their translations and commentaries. The didactic research they had undergone in math, science, medicine, and even the humanities had brought to him truths about the world he had never even imagined. He had learned about the anatomy of the eyeball and the calculation of the radius of the Earth itself, the motions of the planets and stars in the sky. He learned, and learned, and in such learning grew from boy to man, and from man to dragon. 

It was there in Baghdad that he met his greatest friend, the man he was to call brother. He didn’t even recall precisely how he had come to know Leon, only that he did--it seemed as natural as though they were truly brothers, though they came from different countries and families entirely. Leon was a werewolf, the first that Raihan had ever met, and he had apparently traveled from Europe to study at the Bayt al-Hikmah with the blessing of his Christian king. At one point in his memories, Leon was simply there, at his side, in front of him, shoulders broad as he grew into his strength. He excelled in his studies, though he leaned more towards the worlds of biology and the veterinary sciences than the mathematics that called Raihan, but the two of them had many grounds to meet on besides. They played youths’ games together, running foot races and competing at sports, and more often than not Leon could easily toss Raihan aside, despite the fact that Raihan was nearly a head taller, and quickly coming into his own power as a Drakarys. 

Leon was golden, and it would have been easy to be jealous of a man who found the world opening every door to him. But Leon wasn’t the sort of man one was jealous of; his heart was too kind, his smiles came too quickly and truthfully to ever inspire envy. He was willing to extend a hand to any man, took nothing he had not earned, and worked hard for each success. The only place that Raihan excelled that Leon did not was at seeing the tricks and cruelties of others; the failing of Leon’s kindness was that he assumed everyone else approached the world in the same way. Raihan had needed to protect him from this sort of thing on more than one occasion, but Leon still never gave up his fundamental belief in the goodness of others. It was flattering to all, and when Leon said he wanted to become a champion of the people, Raihan believed firmly that he could accomplish it. 

Humanity, for all its greatness, was its own worst enemy. He had loved his time in that city, the birdsong and the countless books, and he had loved the human minds that had answered questions he would never even have thought to ask. The scholars, the artists, the poets and musicians. They had created a shimmering world of beauty, and then in what even to them was a few short years, it ended. The Mongolian sack of Baghdad had sent the Tiber running red with blood and black with ink, and he had left the area in disgust, spreading his wings and turning his gaze east, towards the land now owned by the Mamluks based in Delhi, and which he hoped to find more of the great international minds who had shaped his education as he passed out of the rich crescent that had cradled the youth of humanity itself. Leon, for his part, turned his gaze back to the west and Europe, returning to the court he had since left behind, posing as his own son to explain the difference of decades. 

In the country that would come to be known as India, he found both history and war. The Hindu and Jainist peoples fought against the Muslim invaders in some places, and others lived calmly under the ruling dynasty. The soldiers of both sides tried to bend him to their will and draft him into their service, and there were many more sides than he could name in conflicts that came to mean less and less to him over the years. Yet he found a bow in his hands and a horse beneath him, and he rode with spear and shield gleaming high in the sun. He learned of the castes which defined the lives of humans, and he ate at the tables of Brahmins and looked out over their troops. India was a hot country, and he said this as a man from a hot country himself; where the heat of the deserts of Egypt and the streets of Baghdad had been dry and smooth as clay, the heat of India was a thick, billowing thing, filled with the humidity of the jungle and the wetness of the earth. When the rainy seasons came, water poured out of the sky in torrents, and he thought of the Jewish and Christian scholars with their story of a flood which washed all of humanity away to cleanse the earth of their sins. He wondered if such a thing could occur here, and yet every time he thought for sure his wings would be his only hope of survival, the human people would be back again in the morning, building their homes and telling their stories and eating laddus during festival days. 

Humans were always celebrating something, it seemed. Their beliefs changed from area to area, even town to town, and for a Mythic such as himself it was both fascinating and a little frustrating to watch them war back and forth over these ideologies. To dragons, these different deities were merely names for the same power, the same force of the divine. They outlived humans, and the rules mankind invented to govern and called the will of the gods or God or whomever seemed petty, trite things. Some of them could be seen as truly honoring, and others were merely human contrivances to gain power over other humans. Misinterpretations abounded, and yet, there was a beauty in human worship that drove Raihan to seek out the temples of the Hindus and copies of the Vedic texts. He learned Sanskrit, to read more about the guidance on life, the spirit, and the eternal as humans conceived of it. There were stories, great flowing epics such as the Ramayana, which told of noble Rama, Prince of Kosala, and his great exile in the forest. There were stories about Lakshmana, Rama’s brother and protector, and about Hanuman, the Lord of Monkeys, who accompanied Rama and helped him to rescue his wife, Sita, from the clutches of the evil demon Ravana. Each tale was fantastic and yet Raihan took in each of them as rapt as a child, swept off his feet by the magic and heroism of these greater-than-human figures. Were they Mythic? Had they really lived? Were these gods truly real? Perhaps, and perhaps not; Raihan never found a concrete answer. In the end, it did not matter--their power as a tale, a religious fable, was as great as any formula or diagram of the human body. Greater, perhaps, for while the teachings of the Bayt al-Hikmah mapped and charted and measured that which was, the Ramayana and the other Vedic texts and the thousands of stories about a million Hindu gods were all the diagrams of what could be. They reflected, even in their divinity, the love and sorrow and death and joy that humans felt, each and every day. Days upon days, stacking up into lifetimes, and Raihan watched them pass by. Individually less but collectively more. 

Eventually, he sought and found the tribe of dragons which lived deep in the jungle, and when he spread his wings wide, they had welcomed him as a brother from the western deserts. Unlike his family, who were accustomed to the ways of dry heat and flame, sand and beating sun, the jungle dragons were creatures of pouring rain and steady earth, their scales as deep green as the foliage of the trees and bushes. He could recall their dances, the way their feet struck the earth, the sound of their poetry as it left their lips. The feeling of the hot jungle air beneath his wings on the rare occasion he managed to soar above the treetops, and it lifted him wheeling into the sky. The feel of a bamboo spear in his hand. The everyday duties of sweeping and eating passed in flashes, and his tale faltered when he tried to remember when this time had ended. It was easier to remember the stories and the moments than the timeline. 

But he had left. At some point, he had boarded a trading ship, and sailed back to the Arabian Peninsula, and from there, after receiving a letter from his mother, he had gone to Venice. 

His memories began to fragment around this point, the strong sensory ties that had taken him back to his youth and manhood unravelling. He could remember a man in white out on a barge, dropping a ring into the water to wed the city and the sea once again. He remembered tolling church bells, and twisting city streets that ended in canals, parties with masks and flowing velvet capes. Leon had been there, had invited him...to Europe, to England. Britain was an empire on the rise, and Leon had connections to the royal family there. He’d offered, and in the name of their friendship and a Drakarys instinct for wealth to be made, Raihan had accepted. 

Where had Leon gone? What had happened in England? There was a century or more still missing from his memory, but by now he was exhausted and hungry, voice gone hoarse from the telling. There were holes in the story, entire decades he couldn’t remember in detail, and he’d had to give the briefest version of some events because they could have filled novels. But he told what he knew as best he could, finding halfway through a steadiness and strength of mind in retelling his own story. It soothed him, to find the shape of the man he had once been, and to remind himself that he had survived a great deal. It was as though the pieces of himself were slowly being drawn back together, perhaps not into the same form they had been in before, but a self that was at least his. 

When he fell silent, Piers was looking at him as though he were made of gold, and the quiet moment between them stretched. His thin fingers had pressed the lettered keys and made words appear on the strange device’s flat surface, though he held no quill or ink, and now they paused over the flat board. 

“Raihan, that was...incredible. I--I honestly, truly have no words for that,” he said, and swept the lock of hair that liked to hang down in front of his face back behind his ear. Something played at the edges of his lips that might even have been a smile, and Raihan’s skin tingled at the thought, despite his exhaustion. “That’s really your life? You--oh my god, you’ve been so many places, done so many things--I don’t think even Kabu ever managed to meet more than a few of the Indian dragons, much less live with their group. And you studied at the Baghdad House of Wisdom? You speak like, what, eight languages? Ten? I kinda lost count there.” He looked stunned, but pleased, and Raihan felt himself puff up a little that his mate was so impressed with his tale. 

“I have gone around a few times, haven’t I?” He offered his own smile, sweetened by being able to remember so much, though it faded quickly when he realized he still never came to the heart of what they were trying to accomplish. “Though I still don’t remember where Leon is, or what happened to him. Nor my home and people. Damn it all--” He cut himself off midway, when Piers’ eyes flicked up at him nervously. He’d promised him no more angry outbursts, even though the dragon inside him clawed and roared its rage.

“We’ll--I mean, you remembered a _lot_ tonight. Like, several centuries. It makes sense you didn’t get it all in one go, and we can try again after we’ve both had some sleep.” Right, several hours certainly passed by while he was telling all of that, and if the steadily ticking numbers on Piers’ device are indeed a clock, it’s nearing dawn already. He’ll need his sleep; Raihan had noticed already the dark circles gathering under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks. Bizarre that a vampire should have such ill health; like all Mythics, he’d always known them to be durable as long as they had their blood source. Then again, Piers was an odd example of a vampire indeed, and perhaps his Fey side was what needed the rest. 

“I’m going to go downstairs to find myself something to eat, and then I will return and we will sleep. You will stay here, in the bed--no more of this hiding beneath it. I am more than capable of protecting you from the sun.” Piers looked like he wanted to say something to that, thumb brushing across the back of one hand in nervousness, but Raihan’s word was absolute. He wasn’t going to go digging his mate up every time he wanted to sleep beside him. If it truly bothered Piers, he could sleep between Raihan and the wall. Standing, he grabbed one of the cards that was the room’s “key”, and headed off downstairs. 

The thought of the little vampire sleeping peacefully in his arms, knowing now who he was, put a certain spring in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw everyone has complicated feelings about their origins and history!
> 
> please let me know if I had any major historical crap-ups. yes I am changing raihan's age to be closer to 900 so I can talk about interesting history stuff, because I am a huge nerd like that. 
> 
> next chapter: chekov finally takes that dang gun out of his desk


	6. Chapter 6

The next three evenings passed in a somewhat similar fashion, with Raihan recalling what he could of his past, and Piers marking it all down. Even if what he was managing to remember wasn’t all strictly relevant to his search for Leon, it felt good to regain that steadiness with himself. To shape the man he had once been from the shadows and fragments his life had become during his imprisonment. That, and sometimes he would ask Piers to read him something back, or to be allowed to reread what was written himself, which proved far more interesting than he had expected. What started as simple note-taking and verbatim description soon flowed into a story, though Piers claimed himself no great author, and Raihan swelled with something between pleasure and pride whenever he read the more concise version of his history. Whenever he felt foggy or confused, and the rage seemed to well within him once more, he could look at the notes again and find himself. It was like developing an anchor, or rather, learning again where his foundation was. Time had whizzed by while he was captured, twisting and changing into unpredictable shapes for the world. It seemed as though everything had sprung up all at once, and though he’d always known the world at large to be in constant flux, now it felt as though the changes had come in great tidal waves and left the remnants of the past well behind.

That, as much as anything, frightened him beyond telling. Piers seemed to know how to navigate this modern world with a casual ease, yet every time Raihan thought he’d grasped a foreign concept, a new one would leap up and take its place. One thing relied on the next and the next, like a house of cards, and he wondered privately if he’d ever be able to put it all together, even with the little vampire’s help. Not that Piers was a poor teacher by any means; his immense patience showed itself again and again as Raihan demanded to know how all the slabs with portals to other worlds functioned, what the hell “Why-fie” was, why football had become so culturally significant, and what the purpose of frying a chicken was. (The purpose, it turned out, was that fried chickens were delicious.)

It was certainly better than being alone; Raihan was positive that he would have long since gone mad and started on a rampage that would have attracted the attention of humans, hunters, or even other Mythics looking to put him out of his misery. Perhaps gotten him recaptured. None of them would have taken kindly to a dragon attempting to claw his way through everything that confused him, that was for sure. Piers was the constant in his life now, the axis around which the tiny world of his understanding revolved amidst all the chaos. 

Which was concerning, given that they were strangers.

For every time Raihan tried to ask a question, Piers had a neat way of excising any information that might be considered too personal, beyond what he already learned at the museum. Piers had a sister. Piers was seventy. Piers was a vampire. Piers was raised by someone who was not one of his parents, and one of said parents was literally the Witch Queen of Avalon before her apparently untimely demise. 

Not a small amount of information, but Raihan could seem to glean no more. Culturally, they had little in common. What interests could they possibly share? Raihan loved freedom, flying, learning, growing, walking in the sunlight and feeling the thrill of battle in his veins. Piers loved...well, he presumed that he loved hiding in the shadows, as all vampires do. He loved the strange tablets he referred to alternately as “computers” or “phones”, and Raihan caught him staring at his own often, absorbing whatever information it had to offer. Raihan, for his part, took an instant dislike to the phone—it was too small for his large hands, and he couldn’t see the point in any of the strange glyphs it presented him with. He felt as though he needed a translator for all the symbols he didn’t recognize; what was an “Instagram” or a “Google”? The only words he recognized were “messenger”, which he had no one to send a message to, and “calendar”, which did him little good. The only one that held any interest was the “notes” button, which he could press to open the document that Piers was keeping his story in, but beyond that he had no idea how the device operated or why Piers was so attached to it. 

Many questions, painfully slow and complicated answers. Nothing much that could be considered grounds for mateship, yet his instincts insisted more and more with each passing day, and it baffled and infuriated him in equal measure. He ought to be tearing the vampire’s head from his shoulders and playing ball games with it, not...worrying about him. It went against hundreds of years of ingrained instinct, and everything that he’d ever learned about vampires up until then. The best of them were cold-blooded killers, the worst, nothing more than mindless, aggressive animals that needed to be put down like rabid dogs. 

Yet Piers was so different, it was easy to forget about all of that. Piers was...first and foremost, a person. An interesting person, even though it felt like he and Raihan were standing on opposite sides of an uncrossable chasm, which neither of them knew how to even begin bridging. 

Nighttime came to the hotel with a gentle fall of gloaming that signaled Piers’ rise from his day-long sleep, then settled all at once as best it could around the bright lights of the city. Raihan had already begun to develop a ritual of going down to the hotel’s restaurant before Piers awoke for his dinner, which was unfailingly hearty and better than he remembered the food at hotels ever being. Exotic and out-of-season ingredients populated the menu, and he was at least enjoying being able to eat his way through them one at a time. Or two, occasionally, if he was feeling more hungry than usual, and yet the restaurant never failed to bring out another helping, and an extra ale besides. This part of the future was something he could surely become accustomed to, a world of roasted duck and tiramisu and strawberries even in the fall time, all on demand with nothing more than a word and wave of his payment card. 

After dinner—which occurred early in the evening for him now, given that he was loath to leave Piers alone for too long after waking—he would go outside and attempt to acclimate himself to the hustle and bustle of the new London. The first evening, he merely stood out in front of the hotel, watching the cars pull up and disgorge guests, or others pack themselves into cabs and race off into the night. A howling siren had startled him; it sounded like something between a wailing wolf and a cat being murdered, for fuck’s sake! But when no one around him paid it any mind, and a large truck shot past with flashing red and white lights, he forced himself to take a breath. Later questioning had revealed it was an ambulance, an emergency vehicle designed to take wounded people to the hospital as quickly as possible. Another point for the future, then, because he remembered well how long it could take to have someone run to wake the doctor late at night, and by the time he arrived, what a state his patient might be in. 

The second night, he allowed himself to walk around the hotel building, following the cement sidewalks that lined the sides of the roads for pedestrians, and which were far less troublesome than stepping out the door and almost immediately onto the road. Especially sensible with the overwhelming number of vehicles. Yet when he turned the corner and passed behind the building, it was...quiet. Unexpectedly so. All around him, the industrial soot had been washed away from the old brick facades of the buildings, and they looked new and neater than gingerbread houses all lined up against one another, with lights on in a few windows and bushes growing just inside wrought iron gates. No doubt that this was a respectable part of town, and even when he allowed himself the unavoidable urban voyeurism of peeking through parted curtains to catch a glimpse of the lives inside, they were all bathed in amber light. One man stood behind what looked like a waist-high countertop in a small kitchen area, chopping vegetables. In another, a middle-aged woman with short bobbed hair sat in an armchair, reading a book and idly playing with the chain of her necklace. A dog barked for a moment, then was silent. The wind blew. Music echoed distantly down the street, and Raihan shivered in an unexpected pleasure before turning back for the hotel.

Perhaps the entire world hadn’t gone mad, after all. There were still places of sanity and quiet, even amidst all the chaos.

The third night, he finally decided to walk as far as he pleased, without the tie of the hotel behind him. Well, as far as he pleased within a certain radius of not leaving Piers alone for too long, and vowing to turn back if it all became overwhelming. There was no question that he couldn’t lose his temper out in public, not for real. If a human were to be harmed by his actions...there would be serious consequences, no matter the outcome. 

Yet even with this grave thought in the back of his mind, he tried to be optimistic as he headed out onto the city streets for the evening. Why not? After all, he was a still-young and powerful dragon, the air was crisp but not bitingly cold, and there was much for him to see and explore. Hadn’t he always loved that element of newness in the unfolding world? Wasn’t there a romance in the strangeness of it all, the same here among the city lights as had been in the jungles and deserts and a dozen other cities? Was it not the magic of discovering what other bounties people had created that was the true beauty of civilization? He rolled his shoulders back, feeling his wings ache underneath the skin, then set out at a jaunty pace. 

As he walked, human gazes slid across him, or ignored him entirely in favor of one another, their glowing tablets, or their destinations. No longer was he the oddity that he had once been; now London was truly populated with people of all races and creeds, and it seemed to him that one was as likely to be of a high or low status as the next. Some of the glances were filled with curiosity, others desire; he was, after all, a large and handsome man. Eye-catching, even amongst mortals. It gave him a surge of pride, but he noticed that it no longer carried the hint of invitation that it once had. All dragons are vain creatures, and love to be admired for their beauty, but he found that he no longer had any interest in being more than something for a stranger to wonder at momentarily. 

There were greater things in the city, and as he approached the street’s intersection with a much larger thoroughfare, he braced himself as both excitement and anxiety began to well within him. Stepping out onto the street, he felt bombarded by the sights and sounds and _smells_ from every direction at once. There was the spice of something cooking in a nearby restaurant, there, the metallic cough of engine exhaust, the laughter of a group of teenagers hustling down the sidewalk, the white light that poured from huge glass windows that were now apparently the front of clothing stores. People milled everywhere, chattering with one another until their voices blended to an indistinct roar, yet all at once, he stood to the side and closed his eyes until it all passed over him like a tidal wave. The noise, the light, the motion—all of it was noise and light and motion that had existed already, and though it overwhelmed him after such a long time of deprivation, it was not beyond him to be steady and anchor himself. It was all the same rhythms that had existed since the beginning and it could hold him without stifling him. He had seen the rains of the monsoons and the heat of battle, the clash of sword and spear and the quiet of a garden. In his memories he could walk through the houses and palaces and hovels in which he had lived and slept and converse with those people once again because none of those things were ever truly lost to him, and yet when that story whispered itself into his ear, it was in the quiet, husky tones of a pale vampire he had only just met. 

The city has never been a brutal place, but it is not an inherently kind one either. It is as wild as any jungle, deep as any river, and there are a thousand bodies that make up the trees and riverbanks and stones that mark it out. A million people, a million lives, and to be small before them is to become one of them, even when his life stretched out into the sort of eternity that none of them could imagine. To simply be, in this world and the next and the next, forever reincarnating and reinventing itself. The ways humans divided time, into minutes and hours and days and decades, it was all just arbitrary markers to the single frothing, flowing, woven experience. All at once, everything that happened was just the thing happening now, and when Raihan opened his eyes, it was a city. Nothing more, and beautifully enough, nothing less.

He took himself down long streets and passed musicians on the corners with metallic drums he didn’t recognize, around the multicolored lights that dictated the patterns of traffic, up to glass storefronts with frozen mannequins and magical portals that played loops of video—video, moving pictures—of people doing everything from driving cars to wearing clothing to simply smiling at the cameras. He passed a hundred diversions and still the road carried on, twisting and turning away into darker residential streets and the lives that stacked atop one another within them, each a tiny ember in the crackling hearth of the city. It was immense, but so was he. It was composed of a million small things, and even if they were dressed in foreign colors and called by strange names, built into fascinating shapes beyond what he ever could have imagined, he felt that he could finally know them all and that, indeed, there was a magnificence in the process of learning. 

When his instincts finally told him that it was time to return to the hotel, he did so with a sense of relief. He had made it quite far on his own in one night, and even when the city had pressed against him, he had held his ground. Passing nearby one busy street corner, he startled to feel a deep humming and roaring underground, as though some great calamity approached, and yet all around him the humans continued to stroll along obliviously. Did they not feel it? He was ready to panic, claws extending to bite into his palms at the approaching thundering noise, head whipping to the side as he tried to pinpoint where it would surface. At least it was moving in a straight line—

All at once, his eyes lit on a sign, a red circle with a blue bar stretched through the middle, which read _UNDERGROUND_ in large, white letters. 

Oh. 

Near to the sign there was a staircase that headed down below street level, and presently a few people hurried into it, and a few more hurried out. Approaching slowly, he peered down into the dimly lit stairwell to look over the greyish tiles and concrete, wrinkling his nose at the gasp of warm air that hit him as the roaring noise grew to a peak, then slowed and came to a screeching halt. It smelled of must and human and mildew down there, and he backed away from it slowly, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jacket as he continued on his way back. The Underground, though. Last he had heard, it was still under construction—though it made sense it would be complete over a century later. A below-ground system of tunnels in which trains ran, carrying the people of London to and fro, all packed together into the tiny, rattling cars. Not a place for a dragon, unless he were desperately pressed, but the engineering was an impressive enough feat. He wondered, absently, about all the sorts of things they must have uncovered down there while excavating to make room for the tunnels. London, like most European cities, was built upon itself over and over again, each layer pushing the previous one down, old cellars and basements and graves being forgotten as the new streets and buildings covered the foundations of the old. 

As he stepped off the elevator in the hotel, he sauntered down the hallway with a question already in mind about if Piers knew when the Underground had been completed, and what else he could tell about its history. Yet before he reached the door, he heard noises from within and paused outside the door. Was that...music? It was like none he’d ever heard before, a great ringing and crashing noise that sounded like it came from a stringed instrument, and a banging of cymbals and drums at a frenetic, pulsing beat. A man’s voice, harsh and breaking high over certain notes, echoed out of the room as it rode on top of the rhythm, and Raihan had to focus to even understand the words.

_And I wanna be anarchy,_

_And I wanna be anarchist,_

_Get pissed,_

_Destroy!_

It ended with a long wailing noise that abruptly cut off, and he slowly wrapped his fingers around the door handle. The music sounded so angry, and yet at the same time, it flagrantly tossed its sound around the walls, loud enough to be audible through the walls and door. Was that Piers’ doing? Surely it must be, though Raihan couldn’t quite put together in his mind the slender, introverted, cowering vampire and this degree of rowdy, abrasive sound. 

Or perhaps he could. Piers had fought back against him on more than one occasion, had hissed and struggled and told him off. Had held up much better than could reasonably be expected, really. Maybe this angry music was some extension of that—and as he fit his keycard into the door, another song began with a long ringing and clashing of cymbals, then a stringed instrument (really, what was that?) began a series of short notes that dragged on every third repetition. 

There was something in it that made a part of himself come alive, and he entered the room quietly, not sure if he should interrupt. 

Piers was moving around the bed as he folded up some of his clothing that was strewn across it, freshly laundered and piled high. His hips swayed to the beat, and though he faced the window, Raihan was almost certain that he was mouthing along to the lyrics. 

_Fame—Fame_

_Makes a man take things over_

_Fame—Fame_

_Cuts him loose, hard to swallow_

_Fame—Fame_

_Puts you there where things are hollow_

It was a completely different sound to the last song, this one almost languorous despite the infectious energy, as though beckoning the listener to join the singer in a dance. It, too, was like no music Raihan had ever heard, and yet as he watched the swing of Piers’ hair back and forth in a curtain of black and white, he understood instantly the draw. 

He’d been looking for something that could help him understand his mate, and just now, he’d found his first clue. Passion lit Piers from the inside out, it shone out of every limb as it moved in an elegant rhythm, turning the simple task of folding the washing into a dance, a ritual. The curve of his waist, but more than that. Loveliness that seemed to glow around him, borne perhaps on his own unawareness of it. The beauty of real, true, deep enjoyment that brought Raihan’s heart quickly up into his throat with the surprise of it, that any creature could be unconsciously enchanting like this. It was as though the music had brought him stunningly alive, and Raihan felt his jaw go slack as he watched Piers twist, shimmy, and turn finally to him.

A noise of shock jolted out of Piers, and he dropped the shirt that he’d been holding to hop across the bed to his ‘phone’ that had been the source of the music, and he tapped it rapidly to silence. “How long have you been standing there?” His voice was spooked and for once Raihan felt as though he truly had done a disservice to the world by butting in.

“Only a moment,” he answered as he allowed the door to close behind him with a click. “Is that what music sounds like, in the modern day?” Perhaps he could be interested in this as well; there were certain European composers who had caught his attention and he could certainly respect the time and effort they had put into their craft, but he’d personally always found waltzes and opera music overdramatic and boring. Ostentatious, even. In comparison, he’d always preferred the livelier music one could find in taverns or at big parties, like weddings and birth celebrations. This was certainly a far cry from that, yet there was something...entrancing about it. 

Piers chewed on his lower lip for a second, as though he were deciding how to answer the question. “Not quite. That was music from the 70’s—the 1970’s. About forty-five years ago.” 

“Oh. Well, it’s still incredible. Will you play it again?” This time, it was Piers’ turn to look shocked, but he fumbled with the device in his hands for a moment before the song resumed again. 

_Fame—Fame_

_What you like is in the limo_

_Fame—Fame_

_What you get is no tomorrow_

_Fame—Fame_

_What you need you have to borrow_

“I like that—I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I like it,” Raihan interrupted, moving to the edge of the bed where Piers was sitting and sinking to his knees, so he could look up at him. “It has amazing energy. I wish we’d had music like this in my time, parties would have been far more interesting.” 

There was another moment of silent shock from Piers before he closed his mouth and offered Raihan a tentative smile. “Is that so? I was under the impression it was all pianofortes and dancing the minuet.”

Now he felt that he was getting somewhere, and offered up a snort at Piers’ image of the past. “If you were exceedingly dull, certainly. But I liked to party a bit more heartily than that, and this sort of music would have been perfect.” To his surprise, at that moment Piers burst out laughing, covering his mouth with the back of one hand as he chortled, trying and failing to hold the sound in. 

“I’m—oh, gods, I’m sorry. I just...I’m picturing all these stuffy Victorian people getting down to _Life on Mars_ and it’s—it’s the best image I’ve ever had, hold on.” More laughter worked its way out of him, and his eyes glittered, shoulders jiggling up and down as he tried to contain it. Raihan had no idea what _Life on Mars_ was, but if it happened to be another song like this one, it was definitely an amusing thought. He was pretty sure that any band that had produced music even remotely like this would have been accused of devilry by the general human populace in the nineteenth century, and yet that made it all the better. 

“I’ve never even considered all the ways that music might have changed since I was gone. But with so much technology, it must have evolved,” he mused aloud, and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Piers was watching him with a new intent. Had he struck upon something that his little mate enjoyed? It was undoubtedly the first time he’d seen him laugh since they met; obviously, it was a good sign. “Sometimes I feel as though I’ll never catch up, even if I do have the rest of eternity. What was that other one you were playing, the one about anarchy? It sounded...angry.”

A nerve was struck, and Piers sat almost bolt upright, cool features coming alive with excitement, and Raihan was oddly pleased to let it carry him. “That it was—angry, I mean. The song is called _Anarchy in the U.K._ and it’s by a band called The Sex Pistols, which, don’t even get me started on the names. But the point is, there was this whole wave of sound…” Piers trailed off, but it looked less like disinterest and more as though he was trying to piece his words together, too much to say and not enough space to say it all in.

“I’m wondering if I should start you off with the invention of rock ‘n roll, but then we’d have to go back to jazz to explain where that came from...history is difficult like that. You know, how one part just fits into the next and the next and trying to explain one thing requires going back five steps before it. But the point is, at one time there were all these young, disenfranchised people here in Britain. A lot of them came from working class families, and they were sick of the way the upper classes treated them like scum all the time, but rather than try and imitate their oppressors, they leaned into the image. If they were going to get painted as gutter rats, why not own it? If their tattered clothes and rough speech were part of their image, why not make that the key to their whole thing?” His voice was rising, but Raihan wouldn’t have stopped him for the world. Not when color touched the apples of his cheeks, not when his hair spilled around him in a riot and he almost bounced on the springy bed for sheer excitement, taken up entirely by his description. 

“Build it yourself, do it yourself, because the man doesn’t give a shit about you. If the upper classes were content to stomp on them, then dammit, they were going to start stomping back! Like, you wanna see a monster? We’ll _show_ you a monster!”

The impassioned rant spilled out of him so quickly that Raihan didn’t even have a moment to stop and ask questions, and yet Piers’ passion conveyed the image perfectly. Raihan had been alive for long enough to be no stranger to class tensions, and he had more than once seen a successful rebellion against an occupying force or oppressive regime. It’s something that humans do periodically, really, when they become too unhappy with their circumstances, or when those who exploit them push too far. While humans have a certain tolerance for their own misery, even that reaches an eventual end. Yet he’d never been able to connect with it; as a Mythic, he drifted through the world, untouched by the concerns of humans. He had broken his back laboring in fields, and he had sat at the hand of kings, feasting from the grandest tables. He’d known scholars and poets, warriors and emperors, and walked alongside peasants and traders as well. But humans were always a step removed from him, and he could no more comprehend the intense value of the seemingly petty skirmishes that defined so many of their lives than they could comprehend the totality of his. 

Piers, though, he was living it. Raihan could see it in his eyes, in the way his hands fluttered and moved like two living things, separate from his body. That mesmerizing flash of his eyes was no vampire trick and Raihan felt it steal away some small part of himself, yet didn’t mind the loss. “I take it that’s your favorite kind of music, then?” It was more of a way to toss fuel into the fire, but Piers took it and ran with it, a hitched sort of smile curving one side of his mouth. 

“Yeah, that it is. Punk rock is forever, I swear it’s true.” Raihan could understand it, in a moment. When he took the incongruous image of the way Piers had looked at the museum, cold and exhausted rather than the murderous fiend he’d always believed a vampire to be at heart, then laid that image over top of this joyful, vital thing, it became clear. Piers wanted part of the rebellion, because...of what he was. Of the people who looked at him, as Raihan had looked at him, and seen only a monster.

He realized the wrongness of that in a single moment, and it unwound his image of the world, then respun it. With a simple step, he realized that he’d been thinking of Piers all this time as some monster and Piers was dismayed by it, seeing himself in the same way. He had been born a vampire, from all Raihan understood of it, and even as impossible as that was, it must have been an even worse curse to bear for a lifetime. 

Raihan realized he’d been thinking about this all wrong, considering only what he thought of as Piers’ innate greed. Searched for hunger, and found passion instead. His mouth instantly formed around the first question that came to mind, and it turned out tobe the best one. “Do you play?”

“Play?” Piers snorted, and reached down for the phone which sat in his lap, tapping a few buttons until the first howls of a guitar could be heard ringing out from the tiny device. “Mate, I _shred.”_

Thus passed the next few hours of Raihan’s life, as he learned the history of punk rock, and Piers’ involvement therein. Piers had been there for most of it, of course, listening to the bands and following on their tours. Never getting too close, but always in the crowd. And now he had his own guitar, his own music—and he was good. Raihan himself was neither a musician nor much of a connoisseur, amateur as his ear was, but when he laid himself back on the hotel’s bed and slid the heavy padded devices over his ears at Piers’ direction, he heard it. 

Piers’ voice was a special kind of magic. This wasn’t all party music; much of it had a deep and mournful tone, or screeched with the same rage as the bands he’d played before. He screamed, he ranted, he crooned and practically pleaded into his microphone, and always behind it there was an unnerving crackle and pop just beneath the melody. A sound so big it outran the capacity of whatever he was using to record it, emotion that spilled over into the noise because the medium couldn’t contain it. The sound of more, the sound of decay, of too much and not enough, scraping on Raihan’s heart and rubbing him raw as he listened to all of it. Trying to bear witness to something larger than he ever thought himself capable of holding, almost by surprise, halfway to an accident. 

It pounded him in the chest like waves crashing in, and when he opened his eyes, he saw the cold ocean for just a second in Piers’ curiously returned gaze. Then he slid the device—headphones, Piers had called it—off and down to rest around his neck. “You have an incredible voice,” he murmured, and his own had a crackle to it now too. Swallowing around the dryness, he watched the suggestion of delight on Piers’ features, and offered him up what was the most genuine smile he felt he’d had in over a century. “I mean it, that was...thank you, for the education. I could never have learned something like that from a book.” The words were meager at best, but the look on Piers’ face was entirely worth it. 

Piers jerked bolt upright, and scrambled off the bed to go rummaging for the laptop that he’d managed to bury beneath a pile of unfolded laundry. “Oh—that reminds me, I finally found something! I was going to tell you, until you distracted me with music. I don’t know if it will turn into anything, but…” he pulled the laptop out, and opened it with a flourish, catching the loose papers that threatened to spill everywhere. It seemed as though he’d somehow managed to procure enlarged copies of the details of the painting of his mother....a question for another day, Raihan decided. 

“That symbol, the one on her parchment, it’s actually a publishing stamp. And it comes from a very particular bookstore, one which stands here in London to this day.” Piers looked up at him, and offered a half-hitched smile as he tucked his hair back behind his ear. Two thin fingers tapped on the print-out, right above the mysterious red symbol, and what appeared to be a lithograph of a woman in a crown. He looked up at Raihan, and smirked in triumph. 

“We’re goin’ to see the witches.”

————

Not far from Holborn and Tottenham Court Road, off a main-street crowded with clothing shops and grocery stores and tiny electronics outlets, crossways from a pub on the corner named after a folk song, and wedged between an art gallery and a Greek restaurant, sat one of the oldest gathering places for witches in all of London. It was not overly large, and there was no impressive two-story glass storefront or winding staircases, and it did not require that the visitor be able to tap out a pattern on a brick wall, nor possess a flying car. It rested comfortably on the same foundations on which it had been built and was occasionally renovated, the green facade slowly beginning to tilt forward into the street with age. Rolling carts with paperback books sat in front of the elderly windows, a few periodicals and homemade magazines stuffed between the spines, and there were no fantastical cardboard cutouts advertising the latest bestsellers in the window. Instead, things had been hand-arranged, though there were a few pieces of decor that could either have been for the upcoming Halloween or perhaps part of the store’s overall aesthetic. 

It didn’t look like much, but then any witch worth their salt knows that magic need not be ostentatious to be effective. Intricacy grants more specificity but also leaves more room for error, and some of the best magic is simple and subtle, felt rather than seen.

As Piers and Raihan stood in front of the shop, hesitating on the cobblestones, they could feel it as heavy in the air as the charge before a thunderstorm. A seeking gust of wind blew down the street, carrying with it the damp leaves of autumn already fallen from the trees, and one of the streetlights came on with an amber pop. There was nothing particularly menacing about the store, yet the wall of energy was enough to give both of them pause, tugging at something deep in the gut that said _Mythics Beware._

“Do you know much about witches?” Piers asked, proud at his voice for staying level, even though Raihan’s immense form towered at his side and seemed to radiate tension. 

There was a pause, as though Raihan were legitimately thinking it over. “Not much, if I’m honest. I swear I’ve met some before, but generally, they were solo. Warlocks, hedgewitches, that sort of thing. I guess they’ve learned there’s safety in numbers.” Which explained the massive barrier, likely put up to ward off those with ill intentions. 

“Oh, excellent,” Piers muttered sarcastically. “I love going into situations blind.”

Not that he was totally unaware of what witches were like; Fae and witches often formed bonds, exchanging power back and forth between each other in a unique symbiosis. Even amongst the Mythos, witches were considered an unusual anomaly, given that most of them began as human, and not all of them were immortal. Each witch was unique, or so Kabu had once told him, and their powers could shift based on what seemed like an endless number of variables. Some drew their power from deities, or demons, and were a form of servant to that master in exchange for strength. Others seemed to have a natural well within themselves, and others augmented their strength by drawing from sources in nature, like ley-lines and magical hotspots. Some learned their craft from books, others handed it down from parent to child, or one community member to another. They all had different goals, ideals, strengths and weaknesses, and each witch could be counted on to have a unique talent that set them apart from the rest. They were human, but also not. They were Mythic, but not quite. They had lived between those worlds since time immemorial, and yet revealed their secrets to neither. 

Essentially, knowing anything they didn’t tell you was almost impossible, and the only thing more difficult than that was getting them to tell it to you in the first place. Piers resisted the urge to rub at his temples, and instead summoned his courage and reached for the door handle.

Under his skin, the metal flashed hot and cold, an electric jolt freezing his arm in place for a split-second before the momentum carried, and the door swung open. 

A bell jingled, and though he swore no one spared them more than a passing glance, he had the uncomfortable squirming sensation that every eye in the small shop had landed on him and Raihan. They were being measured up. 

Then, after only a moment, the sensation faded away, and it felt like any normal bookstore. Well, any normal bookstore crammed to the gills with books on witchcraft from all around the world; a cork board on one wall advertised tarot readings and lectures on meditation given by a Buddhist monk, a glass case held necklaces made from everything from obvious plastic to true sterling silver, and nearly every other surface seemed to be crowded with stacks upon stacks of books. Piers almost felt as though he ought to walk gently across the creaking old floor, afraid that a wrong step on a loose board would send a precariously stacked tower tumbling down. Yellowed labels stuck to the front of different shelves designated the varieties of books into sections, everything from Satanism to Tantrism and Old European Mythology. _The Origins of Druidism in Celtic Britain. Candle Magic for Beginners. Mother, Maiden, Crone: The Divine Feminine Archetype in Wicca. Sexual Healing Through Magic._

The last title brought the dregs of a blush to his face, and he cut his eyes away to the back of the shop. At this hour, the customers were few, and he trailed his gaze over a young man in a nearly floor-length black jacket, noting that his arm was wrapped in plastic film and the combat boots he wore seemed scuffed and well-broken in. Just as Piers began to feel a camaraderie, he slipped his gaze over and noticed that another client appeared to be a plump British housewife in her mid-forties, rummaging through a stack on Norse mythology. It seemed so utterly out of place that he almost expected her to be a curious tourist, but she seemed confident enough as she pushed frizzy hair back out of her face and lifted something with a picture of a complicated rune on the front to read. 

“Can I help you find something, boys?” The voice from behind them was cool and welcoming, but both Raihan and Piers turned instantly at the unspoken command. Behind the decades-old register topped off by a brand-new iPad was another woman, wearing a heavy costume ring on nearly every finger and a bright red pair of cat-eye spectacles, who looked not unlike something between the stereotypes of a librarian and a bodice-ripping erotica novelist. She gave them a polite smile and pushed her glasses up her button nose, and slid her chair closer to her desk with an air of patient expectation.

Margaret Drummond, née Marguerite du Roche, was nearly two hundred and fifty years old, and knew a vampire when she saw one. The larger man he was with, she couldn’t quite pin down, but there was a regal carriage to his shoulders that made her certain he was something that qualified as both old and powerful, perhaps moreso than herself. An odd pair, but then again, witches traded almost exclusively in odd things. The fact that they had made it into the store in the first place, rather than being repelled by the wards, suggested that at the very least they had no ill intent. And while most of the customers were either curious humans, new witches feeling the call of their powers, or those more practiced seeking special knowledge, there wasn’t any rule against serving Mythics. 

That, and she was just bloody interested to see what they were here for.

Piers produced the printouts of the enlargements he’d made of the painting, sorting through them until he found the one with the red symbol, and the book that bore the store’s logo on it. “We—we need to find out what this means, and why it’s associated with the woman in this painting.”

Margaret took the piece of paper with two hands, and squinted at it sideways for a long moment before huffing with exasperation. All at once, it seemed as though a bubble of tension had burst, and the two other customers set the books they had been pretending to peruse down. “Jack, will you get over here and have a look at this? I can’t make heads or tails of this, you’re the one who knows things about art.”

The young man shuffled over quickly, taking the papers out of her hands and bringing them up close to his face and then wiggling the fingers of his free hand in Piers’ direction. “Have you got the rest of this? Like, what painting is it from?”

As Piers handed over the rest, including a printout of the full piece, Raihan’s voice cut in. “We also need a way to locate someone, if there’s anyone here capable of doing that. Though finding out whether he’s dead or alive will do.” 

A sharp clap had them turning back to watch the woman with the frizzy hair scurry for the back of the shop, calling out just as she disappeared around a stack of books, “—I’ll be right back with Al!” Then she vanished down a set of stairs, above which hung a massive poster of the Three Graces dancing in a field.

Piers resolved instantly that he would never in a thousand years come to understand witches. Everything here was such a hodgepodge of different belief systems and magical teachings that he couldn’t understand how they managed to even stand in a room together without arguments breaking out, much less consider themselves a united front. Then again, a couple hundred years of both humans and Mythics alike turning against them and slaughtering them had likely forced them to close ranks.

He could understand that feeling, at least. 

“This is—holy shit, this is _actually_ Morgan Le Fey! The Witch Queen of Avalon!” Jack burst out, interrupting his thoughts. Margaret peered over his shoulder with interest, and Jack hurriedly sat the papers aside to go rushing through the shelves, though for what, Piers had no clue. “I don’t know where you found that painting or what you want with it, but I swear I’ve seen that symbol somewhere before. Something old, not Satanist but kinda similar...it looks like a seal of some kind, maybe?”

“If it helps any, the painting was in the National Portrait Gallery. And, uh…” Piers cleared his throat, unsure what sort of reaction this would provoke. “She was my mum.” Saying that felt almost like a lie, even though it was the one fact he’d been able to glean in all this time. His mum, whom he’d never really had the chance to talk to, whose eyes he only remembered as a flicker of nostalgia when he looked at that painted face. Something inside him twisted, but he shoved it back and down to be dealt with later. 

A pin could have been dropped half a mile away, and it would have still been audible in the silence that followed. Then, at once, everyone had something to say. 

“You’re joking,” Jack said, finger held over the spine of a book.

“You’re _her_ son? Are you quite sure, love?” That was Margaret, and before Piers could even open his mouth to respond, the frizzy-haired witch appeared at the top of the stairs with an elderly gentleman in tow, presumably the Al she’d gone to fetch.

“What’s all this?” His voice was as deep as though echoing from inside a hollow log, and a long white beard gave the nigh-comical suggestion of ‘storybook wizard’, which was belied entirely by the fact that he dressed like an accountant. 

Margaret stood from her post behind the counter, and made her way gingerly past a stack of books to hold out the printings to Al. “This—young man—“ she gestured to Piers, “found a portrait of Morgan Le Fey, and was asking for some help identifying a symbol here, but he also seems to believe that he’s her son, which—I mean, that’s like those people who come in here saying they’re Aleister Crowley’s reincarnation, isn’t it?”

Al looked at the painting in his hands, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how it had appeared there, and then up at Piers. What seemed at first an old and rheumy gaze had beneath it a shocking burst of energy, and yet Piers was beginning to figure that he ought not be surprised by these things anymore, at least not from this crowd. The first law of witches was apparently that things were never what they seemed. Al’s eyes searched over his face as poignantly as though they were fingers, feeling out the slant of his nose and the width of his jaw. Not a hungry look, but a measuring one, and Piers had the urge to gasp when it released him.

“I do see a certain family resemblance, Marguerite. Don’t you? Look at the nose.” He tapped the paper with his finger, and Margaret pushed her glasses up close once more. “Of course, we’d need a provenance spell to know for sure. And that’s Ava’s realm.”

This time, it was Jack who cut in from the background, now clutching a stack of books that he had to balance in place with his chin. “Ava? Are we doing blood magic? This far from a full moon—are we even prepared for that?” 

At the mention of blood, Piers backed up until he found himself pressed against Raihan, shocked to find comfort in the warmth of his body and the huge hand that covered his shoulder. “We’ll not be doing any blood magic, not if it harms him. We came here to ask the question of what that symbol means, and nothing more.”

Raihan had been unexpectedly silent throughout all of this, but Piers felt nothing but relief in finally hearing his voice. Had he been overwhelmed by the witches’ energy, or merely as confused as Piers was? Looking up, he caught sight of the hard set of Raihan’s jaw, the shoulder that curled around him as though he were ready to place himself bodily between Piers and the witches. Which—ran the risk of stirring something, but before Piers could contemplate it further, the frizzy-haired woman spoke up again.

“Er—sorry, I don’t think my colleagues here have been very clear, have we?” Tugging at the hem of her oatmeal-colored sweater, she stepped shyly to the front of the room, and oddly, the other witches seemed to draw back as she did so. “I’m Elizabeth, nice to meet you.” An awkward smile as she looked between Piers and Raihan, and then seemed to reach inside herself for an explanation. 

“When we say blood magic, we don’t mean we’re going to sacrifice anyone on an altar or anything. To do a provenance spell—that is, to find out what your true lineage is, we would need a few drops of blood to conjure an image in a ritual fire. That would tell us if what you’re saying is the truth. Not that we don’t _want_ to trust you, but, well, The Witch Queen of Avalon was kind of a ‘big deal’, and being that she was both a Fey and one of the most powerful witches of all time, we...sort of want to double-check what you’re saying is real. It’s a bit of a large claim to make, really.” She looked to Piers as she said all this, and it was the first time since entering the shop that he felt as though he’d truly been addressed. Underneath the housewife exterior, it appeared a commanding witch was waiting to make her appearance. Was she actually the ringleader here? It was a little difficult to tell. Every witch seemed to be at once completely mundane and yet uncanny in a way that sent a shiver up the spine. 

“Ava is the coven’s expert on blood magic, which is why we’d want to call her in. And—Jack—I doubt she’d want to perform a ritual tonight. Because it isn’t the full moon, when blood magic tends to be its most powerful, and because...well, you look a bit hungry, dear.” Beside him, Raihan tensed again, and this time Piers felt it less as a protective curl around him, and more as a stiffening of iron muscles. From everything he’d ever said, Raihan had killed more than his fair share of vampires, and that was precisely the reason Piers hadn’t brought up his hunger yet. Who knew when whatever confusing knot of emotion and instinct that kept Raihan from hurting him would unravel and leave him rending Piers’ head from his shoulders?

Or...would he? Unbidden, the image of Raihan leaning on his folded forearms as he knelt beside the bed flashed up in his mind, that genuine expression of nearly puppyish enthusiasm as he listened to Piers talk about music. It was almost like another person had manifested, and Piers was starting to get whiplash from trying to reconcile all the different facets of Raihan he kept getting glimpses of.

Elizabeth pressed on, her voice cool and level as she continued to explain the details of their plan. “As for the symbol, Jack here will look for it, as he’s one of the best for sigil history and identification, though that might take a while. A sigil is a bit like a signature; it can be very personal for whoever created it, so finding out what it means could take some digging. Nour and Kitty can probably help,” she turned as she said the last, aiming it at Jack, who nodded and took out a cellphone. “Lastly, your friend here mentioned that he’s looking for someone, and needs a location spell? Al will be able to take care of that for you, and that we can get sorted right now. Though, there is a question of payment…”

Right. Shit. He’d brought his card along, and he probably had as much cash as they’d need, even if he’d surely be getting a concerned call from Melony soon about his spending habits. Piers normally wasn’t the type to rack up expenses on his few excursions; even when he went clothes shopping, he tried to keep things reasonable and often bought secondhand clothes anyhow. Witches, however, had gone mercenary in the past few decades, and even Piers was alert enough to the goings-on of the wider Mythical realm to have heard the grumbling that surrounded that choice. Then again, he could understand it. You were a lot less likely to get burned at the stake if you lived in a palace and wore silk and took tea with the nobility than if you lived in a dirt hovel at the edge of the forest and made potions in your kitchen. Money was insurance, and witches needed all they could get. 

“I will settle the payment,” Raihan put in, and Piers could only turn to gape at him, though he blessedly kept his mouth from hanging open. As far as he knew, Raihan didn’t have a cent to his name—sure, from all his stories he’d seemed plenty well-off before his capture, but he hadn’t had a thing on him when Piers had met him. Yet every witch eye turned to him at once, and he stood up straighter, broad shoulders widening as he hit his full height.

Then something began to change. Piers had seen glimpses of the dragon before, in Raihan’s claws and the length of his teeth, the sharp parts of him that pressed the definition of human just a little too far. But this was something else entirely. Raihan’s shoulders stretched, tension humming in every muscle, and Piers swore he saw a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his temple even as his skin rippled, hardening and breaking into a shining pattern of what could only be called scales. The effect didn’t cover his entire body, but it touched at the edges of his face and ran elegantly along his neck; below his jacket, something shifted and bulged in a way that no normal spine would ever be able to accommodate, and Piers almost took a step back.

Almost, because Raihan took a breath, and the shifting stopped as quickly as it started. It was as though someone had hit the pause button halfway through; if Piers weren’t standing right next to Raihan, he wouldn’t be able to pick up on the heavy thudding of his heart and the way his chest expanded with slightly labored breaths. Was this...difficult for him? As far as he’d ever learned, shapeshifting was natural for most Mythics, not any more of an effort than flexing a particular muscle. Some of them even found it easier to be in what they considered their “true” form than the more humanoid appearance they took up to appear in public, and letting their less-human traits be known was a sign of comfort and relaxation. 

Raihan looked anything but relaxed. It was almost concerning, and if it weren’t for the four witches watching them, Piers might have asked about it. Instead, he bit his tongue as Raihan reached up to the side of his face—his fingers had given way to long, brutal claws that Piers remembered viscerally from the way they’d torn through the wall at the hotel, a mark that was now haphazardly covered by tape and plastic sheeting, put in place by a very harried concierge who had been tipped a solid hundred pounds to not make a fuss about it. Vicious as meat hooks, yet now Raihan wielded them with care and precision as he slid the tip of one claw beneath one of his own scales, and with a flick of the wrist, popped it up and out.

The quickest movement, there and gone, but Piers saw the flash of red and pink exposed from where he’d torn it free. “Your kind considers Drakarys scales valuable, correct? I will give this one as payment for the location spell, and another for the provenance ritual.” The question of _didn’t that fucking hurt?_ hung on Piers’ tongue, but Raihan didn’t even spare him a glance as he stared the witches down, turning over his palm and offering the smooth, shining scale resting atop it. 

The witches traded looks, and then Elizabeth reached out and primly took the scale between two fingers. “That should be _more_ than enough to cover your costs. We thank you for your generosity,” she said, and Al rummaged briefly over one of the crowded countertops to grab up a velvet bag, which the scale promptly disappeared into. Huh. So witches truly did use that kind of thing in their spellwork, though given their reaction to the offer, Piers sensed getting an ingredient like this must be a rare opportunity. The fact that Raihan had offered it up so readily in payment sat on his mind like a stone in the palm, to be turned over and over silently. Cruelty and kindness in the same breath.

“Right this way,” Al said, beckoning as he turned back for the stairs he’d just come up. Raihan glanced down at Piers, and Piers realized he was waiting for him to lead the way. Surprised, he followed after Al and they descended the narrow stairs, covered in a blue carpet starting to go threadbare from all the use. 

The downstairs of the shop was not much bigger than the upstairs, but a door had been established on one side of the space with a plaque on the front reading “office”, and a small sigil was carved into the wood beneath it. Straight on from the stairs was another room, this one larger, that must extend beneath the street above. Al led them back into it, and gathered them around a small wooden table that seemed to be nearly the extent of the furniture in the room, excepting some folding chairs and a large altar covered in a soft red cloth. On it rested a painting of a smiling goddess Piers didn’t quite recognize, an offering tray of apples, and a series of white candles in ascending candlesticks. Everywhere, it seemed, there was an air of both the sacred and the mundane, of worship but also of daily life. Witches truly lived in, around, and alongside their patrons...or, at least, their beliefs. Whatever those may be. Introductions were made, first Raihan and then Piers, and Al shook each of their hands with the congeniality of an old man meeting new acquaintances at the pub.

“Just a moment, then. I need to gather some things before we begin,” Al said, already turning and shuffling back out of the room. 

Leaving just the two of them. Raihan’s shoulders were still rolled back tightly, and there was a stiffness there that spoke of pain hiding beneath the skin. Swallowing his discomfort, Piers stepped forward, haltingly, and pointed to the side of his own face. “Doesn’t that—um, didn’t that hurt? Pulling out a scale so fast?”

Raihan’s look was one of genuine surprise, though Piers wasn’t sure why. “A bit, but nothing I’m not used to. From what I understand of witches, things like that are more valuable than any currency.” He was right, of course, but that didn’t stop Piers from biting at his own lower lip. Something about the way he’d so casually done that felt earth-shaking, yet he had no idea how to acknowledge it.

“Right. Well, you should still let me clean it up when we get back to the hotel. I know you probably don’t get infections, but a bandaid never hurt anyone.” The offer felt ridiculous as soon as it left his lips, knowing well how strong Raihan was. Yet those brilliant eyes only looked at him curiously, and Raihan’s face softened all at once. His mouth opened to say something—

Then the door opened, and Al came back in with a roll of paper tucked under one arm, a few candles, and a small wooden box in his other hand. “Right, here we go. The spell itself isn’t too terribly complicated, fortunately, once you have the right equipment to hand.” 

On the table, Al spread out the rolled up piece of paper, which turned out to be a map of the world, gone slightly faded with age and repeated folding. Not old enough to be inaccurate, but something about it seemed to radiate a sort of power. Then he took up the candles, and set one of them at each of the four edges of the table, lighting them with a snap of his fingers that had Piers jumping back. 

Right. Not all witch-magic was so slow acting as he’d come to expect. The candles flickered and swayed, and Al closed his eyes for a moment, his lips moving as though he uttered something silent. An invocation, perhaps? 

“Now, master Raihan...I will need you to begin to focus all of your intentions on the person whom you are looking to find. The more clear their image is in your mind, the more memories you bring up about them, the quicker and more effectively the spell will work. In the meantime, I will perform a simple cleansing to rid the space of any energies from previous work that has been done here.” At these words, Raihan cast a last lingering glance at Piers, and then closed his eyes as Al had done. 

From the small wooden box, Al took out a single clear crystal around the length of his thumb. This he held above the table, and to Piers’ shock, he watched as a thin and grimy trail of what appeared to be smoke rose from the surface of the map and swirled up towards it. It feathered back and forth on an imaginary breeze, and lingered in the air for a moment before approaching the crystal and seeming to be sucked within it, as though it had absorbed whatever the tendril had been made of. 

Slowly, steadily, Al drew a circle in the air with the tip of the crystal, as though he were painting with a brush on a great invisible canvas in front of himself. There was nothing that happened for a moment, the air hung still, and then all at once it seemed as though the part of the world that existed immediately around the table quickened and brightened, while all else was held by a dim fog. Even noises from outside, the street and shop above, seemed distant and dampened enough to be coming from miles away.

“There,” he said simply, and set the crystal back into the box. “I’ve created a little bubble for us to work in. It will help us to concentrate on the task at hand, with no interruptions.” Raihan’s eyes opened, and he looked around himself as well, even as Piers found himself taking a step closer. Al drew out from the box next what looked like a piece of purplish stone on a gleaming silver chain, which he held out to Raihan.

“A pendulum?” Raihan sounded disbelieving; Piers had never truly seen one used by a witch before, besides as anything more than an idle toy to stretch their powers and pass the time. Not in a ritual such as this. Yet Al only offered them the pleasant smile of an old man who knows a great deal more than oneself, and dangled the chain loosely. 

“I know what you’re thinking, but I believe you’ll find magical tools work just a bit better down here. And of course, I’ll be helping you along the way. Now, again, keep your mind’s eye on the person you’re searching for. Grasp the end of the chain between the first two fingers and the thumb and hold it out above the map. When you feel it being tugged, allow your arm to follow.” Raihan’s expression said that he wasn’t impressed with having paid a scale for this, but they were too far along to back out now, and he took the chain as instructed.

Back in the box again, Al brought out a small abalone shell with a hole drilled at the heel and scorch-marks within, into which he poured a mixture of dried herbs that smelled fragrantly of citrus and green sage. This he dropped a match into, and it smoldered to life, filling the small space with curls of white smoke. Piers breathed more of habit than anything else, as it helped him to speak, and yet even if his chest was still the scent of it curled within him and felt oddly familiar. As though it were some perfume that he hadn’t caught a whiff of in decades, or since he was a child. 

Then the pendulum began to swing wildly in Raihan’s grip, so fast he nearly dropped it, and sprang towards one side of the map as though some unseen hand grasped the other end. Al chuckled, and fanned the smoke a little more. “Oh, your friend is alive alright. Alive and damn well, if I do say so myself!” 

Raihan’s hand followed along after the tug of the pendulum, and when the chain went slack, the tip was pointing down over somewhere in Northern Africa. Raihan bent close, squinting at the map. “The hell is he doing in Cairo…?”

Al shrugged, and the pendulum fell to the table with a clatter. “That I can’t tell you, not without more sophisticated scrying spells. What I can tell you is that with an energy as strong as his is, he’s definitely alive, and definitely there. Probably has been for some time. Now, if that’s all you were looking to find—“

Raihan straightened, and nodded once. “That will be all for this evening. If I need more, I’ll return with further payment.” Piers was secretly glad for that, because the smoke was starting to make his head spin. Hunger clenched in his gut even as he stood with the table between himself and Al, and the dizziness was not helping. 

Once the dampening spell was dispersed and the smoke cleared slightly, the noises from the outside world snapped back into clarity with a pop. Piers could hear an additional heartbeat upstairs; someone else had arrived.

As if on cue, Al rolled up the map and tucked it under his arm again, and said “Ah, it would seem that Ava is here. Mr. Piers, I believe this is your turn.” 

When they ascended the stairs, the witch Ava was indeed waiting for them. Unlike the others, who largely seemed like average enough people to pass on the streets of London, Ava had an air of difference that struck from the very first moment. Dark hair hung in ringlets nearly to her waist, glossy as ebony, and her eyes nearly matched them in glorious darkness. Her skin was olive, her nose aquiline and proud, even her lips seemed full and dark as cranberries. No one would deny the beauty of such a woman, and when she moved, it was with the careless grace of a dancer. 

Blood, after all, has such power.

Piers hardly recognized that she had stepped into his face before she was gripping him under the chin, fingers firmer than iron as she turned his head this way and that. Then, at the very moment he was about to protest, she released him and took a step back. “My apologies for being so forward. I am Ava, Priestess of the Blood, and I assume you are the vampire in need of a provenance spell. I can do this, but—“ She extended her finger in warning, pointed right at his chest. “You, vampire, need to feed. All my magic will have no effect if you are not strong enough to provide for the spell. One as young as you should be feeding daily, and yet I can tell it has been more than a week. Come back to me when you are no longer starving.”

Behind him, he felt Raihan tense, every line in his body going rigid enough that Piers didn’t even need to look to see the expression on his face. The same expression people always wore around vampires they didn’t trust spoke of feeding. Which was all of them.

Without another word, Piers nodded to Ava and walked directly for the door, hearing the bell jingle on his way out into the street. Maybe if he went back to the hotel and fell asleep, he wouldn’t have to think about this.

————

Raihan couldn’t understand why Piers refused him still. That witch, Ava, had said that he needed to feed every day, and it had been nearly a week! His mate had starved all this time, and he had not noticed it. Allowed it, even. It was unthinkable, and every instinct in his head roared in rage at his own failings. 

But it was because his mate was a vampire, and vampires fed by taking life. He wanted to tear his hair out thinking about it, and yet there was only one viable solution—Piers would feed from him. A Drakarys was not half so vulnerable and weak as a human, and he had the strength to pry him off if he began to take too much. A month ago, even, it would have been utterly unthinkable to him. Among the Drakarys, such a thing would have long been considered a mark of shame, to fall prey to another creature when they were themselves meant to be the top of all predators. Yet now it was a shame he would readily bear, if it meant Piers would open those cerulean eyes and look at him once more without exhaustion and hunger haunting his gaze. 

Except now, as Piers curled his frail body against the pillows of the hotel room, he tried halfheartedly to wave Raihan away again. “I—can’t, Raihan…” His voice even seemed raspier, weaker, as though a little more of his life had drained away between the bookstore and this room.

Damn it. Damn it all! “Why will you not? You heard the witch, you need it for that spell, and even I can see that you are weakened without it. Why didn’t you tell me of this sooner?” _That_ gets a stare aimed at him, but this one is so stark and barren it makes him want to retreat a shocked step.

“Because of _this._ Because the way you’re looking at me right now means you hate me, and you know what? I kinda hate me too.” Raihan opened his mouth to protest that he didn’t hate Piers, and then closed it when he realized that he’d likely never given much evidence to the contrary. At the very least, it was true that he hated Piers being a vampire, and had made that clear over and over. 

Piers chuckled, a rattling noise like dry leaves on stone, and curled deeper into himself, hair covering most of his bony shoulders and cramped body. “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t want to sign up for being a monster forever. A killing machine. I like being as alive as I can get, Raihan, and becoming a bloodsucking scum of the earth doesn’t really go hand in hand with finally getting an album out there and learning how to skateboard,” he muttered. Raihan couldn’t follow the end of that, but he blinked to know that Piers had no interest in killing. Then, how had he…?

“How have you survived for this long, then, without drinking blood from a human?” He was almost positive that vampires could not survive on animal blood, and he’d never seen them drinking it. He thought their kind took pleasure in feasting on human blood, especially straight from a source. The thought of Piers reveling in the death of another was one he’d purposely been avoiding this entire time, but the hint that perhaps he wasn’t such a beast raised a spike of hope in Raihan’s heart. 

Piers shifted again, gazing blankly down at the hotel’s patterned bedspread. “Blood bank...my plug gets it from them one way or another, and sells it back to me. Black market, I guess. At least it’s freely donated, though it’s supposed to go t’ sick humans, not hungry vampires.” 

Raihan’s pause as he worked out the logic of what a blood bank was and how it operated must have been taken as a judgment, because Piers’ icy eyes switched up to him, glaring darkly once more. “Don’t look at me like that. What would you do, if you were me?” 

The question is staggering. Murder and madness or starvation; that’s not a choice, but a death sentence written two ways. In his long life, Raihan has done things he wasn’t proud of in order to survive. Cheated, lied, stolen, fought. He’s killed before too, but not as an extension of what he is. Yet is it really so different? What _does_ this shred of morality mean in the face of an eternity?

In the quiet spaces between blinks, he can always remember the roughness of the rock driving into his spine, and the hiss of acid that dripped down onto his stomach and chest, eating away at him little by little. Killing him. Reviving him. The vampires would have left him down there forever, and yet.

His claws flicked out from the ends of his fingertips, and before he could question his own decision, he sliced a thin seam into one of his wrists. A thing like that would never be a danger to a Drakarys or most Mythics in general, but he saw Piers’ body tense, frozen to perfect stillness. 

“I would take what I’m being offered now, and live to debate the ethics of it another day. You will not kill me, that I am sure of. Do not make me force it down your throat.”

Piers waited for a beat longer than Raihan would ever have managed if he were starving, and it was admirable. Pointless, but admirable. Then in a flash, white fangs extended from beneath his upper lip like glistening needles, and sunk into the flesh of his wrist before he could have even thought about drawing back.

Raihan could only groan, stunned at the pleasure that ripped through his body as Piers began to draw on his wrist with greedy little sucks. Cold lips brushed against the skin of his wrist and he felt them like the drag of silk, the flicker of a velvet tongue against his open pulse. It should have been painful and yet the twin spikes of heat sunk deeper into his flesh, sensitizing it to the point of near ecstasy. Pleasure as he’d never known…

Up close, Piers’ eyelids were so pale as to be translucent, and Raihan could see the miniature blue veins that twisted across them, useless as anything more than decoration without a heartbeat to fill them. Piers’ brow was furrowed in the joy of his feeding, and Raihan knew instantly he would allow him this every time he requested it. His little vampire would feed on him night after night, in exchange for this delight, for the hardness of his cock straining in his pants. If only he could take him after, it would be perfect. To lay his sweet mate back on the bed and slam into him over and over while Raihan’s own blood coated his lips, tasting it as he drank in his moans and mewls, it would be heaven on earth. He’s gone insane, he’s certain of it if he’s thinking this way, but that had been guaranteed long ago. 

Piers’ eyes snapped open, and Raihan felt his heart squeeze tightly in his chest, for they had turned _gold._ The pupils had vanished and so had that cool blue color, and now they shone like two coins freshly minted above the crest of his cheekbones. Gold such as no dragon could ever hope to resist, and he longed to count them amongst his hoard. They were fixed on him, and Piers gave a hungry moan against the side of his wrist as though in answer to the unspoken question. Maddened, Raihan gripped the front of his shirt and tore it wide, exposing the pale chest he’d inspected with such delight on their first night together. Still those pink, beckoning nipples with their glittering decorations, and now Raihan didn’t have the will to stop himself from bending down to take one into his mouth. It hardened instantly under the attention, the little point stiff under his tongue, and he snarled his approval when Piers clutched the back of his hand and drove his fangs deeper. 

Distantly, some half-drowned part of his mind asked if vampire eyes weren’t red, didn’t he remember so much red? Yet that thought was overshadowed instantly when he felt the flicking of his tongue over Piers’ nipple mimicked by the vampire’s own on his wrist. Sucking him, drinking of him, gods above—he’d give him everything. His cock throbbed in the confines of his jeans and he yearned to take it out, even if only to grip them both in one hand and stroke to the completion they both needed desperately. 

Piers’ chest tasted like metal and diamond, and for a Drakarys, there were few sweeter flavors. The satisfaction he found in his mate knowing value was indescribable, and the way Piers was clinging to him as though he never wanted to be released only increased it. Even when Raihan cracked his eyelids, he could look down that lithe body and see the growing erection in the front of Piers’ soft sleep-pants, the ones he’d changed into as soon as they arrived. Raw delight twisted his gut to see that symbol of enjoyment, of the thick need building between them. How long had he wanted this? How long, how many decades or even centuries, had he craved the touch of his mate? And now it felt better than he had ever dreamed. 

Gutted, he reached down to grope Piers’ ass and found that either side would indeed fit in a palm. A perfect handful, just for him. His breath sawed in and out of his chest and he already began to feel a slight dizziness; Piers was taking so much, and yet he couldn’t deny him. Couldn’t stop it, not when Piers’ hips undulated into his hands as though beckoning and begging for more touch. Already he could picture the clenching heat of his body wrapped around his cock like a satiation to all hungers, an end to all need. He would bury himself inside Piers and cum again and again, empty himself completely until his mate was swollen with him, wring out every last drop of his pleasure. _Taste him. Feed him. Mark him. Breed him._ All of it, again and again, as he’d been owed this century past. 

Piers’ fangs finally drew free of his wrist, and that clever tongue lapped across the marks he’d left behind, sealing them. A moment of care that only made him adore Piers more, and he watched in awe as Piers’ body began to change as he fell back on the pillows, pale arms stretched above his head. Those nipples that had so entranced him puckered and ripened further, and the lips that had been pallid to the point of near whiteness grew full and red. His hair, so striking before, seemed to gain a luster it had lacked, and Raihan felt his heart already hammering in his chest as Piers’ skin pinkened. The hollows of his cheeks filled and the way he writhed was unbearably erotic to watch, but Raihan kept his hands to himself as Piers twisted on the bed. Even his hips grew—gods above, curvier, plumper, as though even this amount of blood had fattened him back to health. He longed to cup the thighs that were now not alarmingly thin, but slender and elegant, wanting to test the new thickness of flesh with the tips of his claws. 

It was like watching him come to life, and Raihan growled as Piers finally sat up, turning those golden eyes to stare directly at him. “Raihan…” The name came out of his mouth like a purr, but he may as well have applied spurs for the shudder it sent racing up Raihan’s spine. 

“Piers—“ he began, and lunged forward, intending to claim and take what was his finally, after a near millennium.

Then his back hit the opposite wall of the hotel room, and he slid down it, half upending the desk on his way down. Papers showered around him, and he blinked in confusion, struggling to get to his feet once more. 

It was only on his second attempt that he realized Piers had backhanded him hard enough to dislocate his jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any typos, I didn’t bother to edit this and chose to die like a man. Also I just desperately needed to get it out!
> 
> Oof. Looks like Piers took a level in badass right there. R.I.P. Raihan’s jaw.

**Author's Note:**

> Raihan isn’t actually a bad guy, but once you’ve been tortured for a century or more, it kinda does things to your rational thought processes. He gets better. Piers also gets better. 
> 
> This will update whenever the heck I feel like it, mainly.


End file.
